


Operating Instructions

by DesdemonaKaylose, neveralarch



Series: Banners from the Turrets [23]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Adopted Children, Family Bonding, Jazz Definitely Doesn't Have PTSD No Sir, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Prowl Has Emotional Issues, Transformer Sparklings, dramatic 3 am confrontations, when u wanna be dad but your kid keeps putting you in the godzone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26067844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesdemonaKaylose/pseuds/DesdemonaKaylose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch
Summary: Jazz and Prowl scramble to deal with the trials of unexpected parenthood, as Tarantulas' arrest has left bouncing baby/miracle of deranged science Ostaros in their tender custody. Jazz isn't handling it well. Prowl just isn't handling it, period.Meanwhile, Rung has stumbled across the troubling case of a newspark fresh out of the hotspot, whose uncontrolled outlier ability has left him confused and isolated and desperately in need of an advocate amid the sterile medical world...Parenting is hard enough in the best of circumstances, but figuring it out from literal scratch while your whole species watches on in bemusement is significantly harder.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl, Prowl & Starscream (Transformers)
Series: Banners from the Turrets [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1265390
Comments: 168
Kudos: 193





	1. After All, It's Just Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> This directly follows from the last Banners fic, Apotheosis. Sorry/not sorry for the increasing denseness of our AU. We'll probably update pretty quickly on this one - it's pretty much all written, we just gotta sort out the chapter breaks haha. For context on what Jazz and Prowl do in their private time, [Liquid Flux](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/62889349) has them under a little spotlight for a chapter.
> 
> This fic contains messy emotional stuff but nothing we'd specifically warn for. Let us know if you need details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Cover](https://koroa.tumblr.com/post/614017931702059008/gold-boys-for-sauntervaguelydown)

Starscream’s wings were _so_ pretty, thin but strong, and with these colored panes you could see your hand through. And they had flaps that you could move, if you were careful and didn’t—

Starscream flicked his left wing away. “Gentle,” he reminded. “I’m not a toy.”

“Sorry,” said Ostaros. He kept _trying_ to be gentle, but Star’s wings were a lot more sensitive than Ostaros’ were. He brushed just the pads of his fingers over a flap hinge, and Starscream’s wing flicked again. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to!”

“It just tickled,” said Starscream. “It’s fine, you can look.”

Ostaros’ wings didn’t have flaps. They also didn’t _work_ , he could spin them but they weren’t strong enough to lift and he didn’t have thrusters. Papa said he could build them himself, in the cocoon. But Ostaros didn’t know how.

“How do you build thrusters?” asked Ostaros.

“Badly, usually,” muttered Starscream. He was scrolling through a datapad, sitting sideways on the couch so Ostaros could reach his wings. “I can do a decent battlefield hack, but I leave construction to the professionals.” He extended one leg so they could both admire his long, slim thruster. Which they both did. It looked so _simple_ and _complicated_ at the same time. Ostaros was never going to get it right, and he’d only have one chance.

“How do they do it?” Ostaros persisted.

“ _I_ don’t know,” said Starscream. “I just pay them. Why?”

“I’m gonna do it,” said Ostaros. “When I’m soup.”

“Hm.” Starscream glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

That didn’t make Ostaros feel better. The way Star said it was the way adults talked when they didn’t think something was important and you were being silly for asking about it. Papa never said things like that to him.

The kinds of things Papa said to him were more like “Wonderful question, Ostaros,” and “If we remove the fuel tank, I’m sure we can find out,” and “Please tell me _exactly_ what Lockdown was asking you about your mods.” Normal stuff, not _kid_ talk.

Ostaros missed his papa. But at least he had his dad, too.

Ostaros slid off the couch. “I’m gonna go ask Prowl.”

Starscream looked back to his datapad. “Have fun.”

Prowl was in the kitchen, talking to Jazz. Ostaros stood in the doorway and fidgeted, because Papa always told him to wait until adults were done talking unless he had a containment breach or a limb falling off or something.

“—Don’t know why the kid’s my responsibility, all of a sudden.” Jazz had his arms folded and his back against the counter. He reminded Ostaros of an alien he’d seen on an asteroid once, its plating all spiky and hard.

“It’s simply the best use of resources,” said Prowl. “I’m not able to continue taking time off indefinitely. Your work is… irregular, and—”

“I got stuff to do,” said Jazz. “I’m, whatever, I’m funemployed. Help my friends out, you know.”

“Then help _me_ out,” said Prowl. “You won’t be alone. I know it’s unfortunate. I’m not thrilled about it either. Starscream’s available to assist—”

“Temporarily!” yelled Starscream, from the living room. “I’ll be reinstated to the senate any day now!”

“—And I will resume duties in the evenings. Just until we find better arrangements.”

Jazz didn’t say anything. Ostaros, seeing a gap in the conversation, leapt in both verbally and physically.

“Dad, how do they make thrusters?”

Jazz’s face froze in that way it always did when Ostaros moved too quickly or climbed up a wall or did something else that Jazz didn’t like. After a second his face unfroze, and he smiled. He always did that too. “ _Primus_ , kid,” he said. “I didn’t notice you there. Did you change your spark frequency again?”

“I dunno.” Ostaros gently nudged at Prowl’s knee. “Da-ad. Thrusters? I’m gonna have to make them myself and what if I do it wrong and I blow up?”

“Mm. We can’t have that.” Prowl gestured Ostaros to the table, where Ostaros scrambled up into a chair and Prowl neatly sat. “What kind of thruster are you most interested in?”

“There’s different kinds?”

“We’ll begin with the ion thruster, then.” Prowl pulled up a schematic on a spare datapad. “Now, this is the shell. You place the magnetic rings here, and here, and then the—”

“We’re not done with this conversation,” said Jazz. He was hovering in the doorway, arms still crossed tightly. “I’ll still be here when you’re finished talking about thrusters.”

“Of course.” Prowl didn’t look up from the datapad. “We can discuss it for as long as you’d like.”

Ostaros kicked his feet against the chair and opened up his long-term memory storage. “Thrusters,” he said, and Prowl went back to what was _important_.

\---

The Light House was a Cybertronian institution so old that it had been all but forgotten in recent millennia. But to Rung’s optics it still had an odd familiarity to it, both inside and out, even despite its recent renovation by the hardest working constructicons in the galaxy.

The constructicons had kept the soothing black and white wall tile, the rounded edifice, the periodic black enamel crosses embossed into the original construction. Excellent work for barely a week’s notice—they’d apparently been paid out of pocket, by Dai Atlas, who was now struggling to get the senate to agree on how and even whether to reimburse him.

Politics. Rung didn’t care for politics, especially… lately.

But he was glad he’d come out to the eastern edge of reclaimed Cybertron to see it all the same. He felt better just being under the auspices of the black cross, symbol of the blacksmith; the air here felt fresh and alive, the very real side effect of so many growing protoforms throwing off heat and magnetic signals. The Blacksmith Superior, a wizened Camien _she_ with a trailing set of propellers, had shown him around the less medical wings of the building: the incubation room for the really tiny bodies who couldn’t yet make heat well, the nursery where the more mobile ones were sorting out their motor functions, and the creche where lesson downloads and testing were happening constantly.

And then, with a grim humility, she had brought him here and left him with the hovering horde of medics and their lonely charge.

Rung peered through the viewing window, a long pane of reinforced crystal with enough radiation shielding to make the room beyond look fuzzy and gossamer. It was a shame, then, that the vision beyond was no image of gods and glory out of a Golden Age light sculpture. It was only a young jet-engine in an otherwise empty room, in that awkward scrawny stage as his last round of frame growth endeavored to pad his armor out around his protoform.

“You can’t seriously mean to keep him in there,” Rung said, taking in the absolute lack of enrichment material. Not even a pad to doodle on, honestly. “He’s been picking at his paint, look there, you can see he’s scratched off a whole section over his thruster. This is no place for a growing mechanism.”

“We gave him all his post-natal downloads,” one of the doctors said, resentfully. “He’s got plenty of material to review if he wants.”

The sparklings were coming out of the new hot spots at whatever rate they were growing, which was normal. This one was from an earlier protoform harvest, but not long ago, judging by his armor growth. He would have been moved through the nursery into the creche by now, normally, but...

“Cybertronians are intensely social beings, Kaput,” Rung said, pressing his palm to the window. “Maybe a war-hardened soldier with a lifetime of experience behind him can handle days of unbroken isolation, but look at that bot, doctor. He’s barely grown in his cladding. He’s been out of the dirt for what, a week?”

The golden seeker looked up, optics zeroing in on Rung’s palm at the window pane, and then his wings started to vibrate. His biolights swelled with so much light that just imagining their heat output was enough to make Rung wince. And then the mech started to cry.

Rung turned a hard look on Kaput. The sparkologist scowled and shuffled, avoiding Rung’s eye. The rest of the attendant nurses backed up and found other things to look at.

It must be difficult for them, caught between their immediate supervisors and—for all intents and purposes—God. Perhaps they blamed Rung for this difficulty? He’d set off the hot spots after all, surely it was he who was ultimately at fault for any sparks who failed to meet the usual milestones. Rung frowned at the new-build, who had begun to emit waves of radiation on a near-visible spectrum.

Glit, off to the side of the gaggle, made a polite little noise. Rung turned with some relief to the beastformer, who has always been one of the more communicative members of Rung’s wartime staff. A familiar face was helpful. Facilities where Rung was not in charge had become unexpectedly difficult for him to navigate, over the years.

“The thing _is,”_ Glit said, “we _can’t_ let him out. He’s too dangerous. He started letting off radiation a few minutes after we pulled him out of the Hallowed Delta, and we were just lucky a small spark couldn’t generate all that much power. Now if he starts to get worked up like that,” Glit gestured at the window, “around anyone who isn’t designed for long term space exposure, he’ll melt the circuitry right out of them. He’s a walking timebomb. And we don’t have _any_ shuttles cross-trained as medics, so I can’t even get anyone in there to examine him.”

“Another belated gift of functionism,” Rung murmured. He shared a moment of pained resignation with Glit, two off-mode medics more than fully aware of how little they’d ever had to work with.

“So _we_ thought,” Kaput cut into the moment, “maybe _you_ could go in there. Bring us back some close readings. You were a proper medic during the war, right?”

Rung turned on him. “You want _me_ to go in there?” he rapped the window with a knuckle. “Is this some sort of very polite assassination attempt? Whatever your estimation of my medical skills, Doctor, I’m _certainly_ not shielded for interstellar flight.”

“Well no,” Kaput said. “But you, ah, you are _God_ aren’t you? You’re immortal, basically. Everyone’s heard about how you grew back half your head after that terrorist blew it off.”

Rung pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. This was the kind of manner the medical practice had come out of the war with. Truly disheartening.

Rung was lost on how to deal with the whole _divinity_ problem, such as it was. In fact he was fairly sure he _could_ be killed—an impressive healing factor was no guarantee of true immortality—but he wasn’t particularly inclined to test it out. Would letting people make their own assumptions about it discourage other trigger-happy atheists with a bone to pick? Or would it only tempt hotheads to try their luck? He didn’t know, he couldn’t say, and meanwhile Starscream was making disconcerting noises about bringing back the theocracy with Primus instead of the Prime.

He looked at the hiccoughing newframe in the isolation room, radiation pouring off him, and thought about the medical examination of his own scheduled for later that day. If he slagged anything, surely Wheeljack would notice and address it before it became too dire.

“Alright,” he said, pulling off his glasses with their delicate mechanisms, “I’ll go.”

In the next several minutes Rung experienced the full gamut of deep space preparations in amazingly short order. Before he could think twice, he was sprayed down with an aerosol protective coating, bagged into some kind of hazmat suit, and shoved through the thick lead door into the room beyond.

For a moment Rung worried that the jet was going to rush the door, and given his size—easily as tall and heavy as Starscream’s earlier war frames—he might have succeeded in an unfortunate though justified escape. But then the jet fell back, curling into himself, as the door closed behind Rung. The whole room smelled faintly of singed circuitry.

Rung held out his opened palms. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Rung. I’m here to help you.”

The jet regarded him with a helpless expression. “My name’s Sunstorm,” he said.

“That’s a lovely name,” Rung said, and meant it. “My very good friend is a seeker, like you. I know a little about jet engine frame types. Would you let me take a look at you?”

“Are you going to jab me with something?” the jet said, wings flaring as if to make himself look bigger. “They were jabbing me with things and then I started to burn them, so they put me in here. I finished my testing files. I didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t have to stick things in me.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Rung said, “they weren’t punishing you. They were just trying to get your levels, for medical reasons.”

“I passed all the cultural data tests,” Sunstorm insisted. “I even passed the test on historical figures, and some of those classical composers had really confusing names!”

There was a growing physical discomfort inside of Rung’s frame, hot and staticy. He winced, and tried to ignore the smell of charred circuitry inside his olfactory receptors. He took another step closer, palms still open, trying to seem small and harmless. “Those can be confusing, can’t they? The names? Some of them are written in old Cybertronian, and I bet you don’t have the language database for that yet, do you?”

“No,” Sunstorm said, and wiped some fluid from his face. “It’s a different language?”

“A different writing system,” Rung said. “Well, a different form of the same language too, but if you knew how to pronounce the glyphs, it would still make the same sounds. But don’t worry about that right now. Did they give you anything about more recent history? The last couple thousand years, maybe?”

Sunstorm shook his head.

“Okay,” Rung said. “That’s okay. Some of the medics haven’t dealt with young people in a long, long time, you see? So they don’t remember that sometimes, it can be scary when you don’t know what’s going on. It’s okay to be confused.”

“You’re not angry?” Sunstorm said.

“Of course I’m not angry,” Rung said. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Sunstorm bit his lip and, yes, picked at the paint on his arm. “Everyone was really mad before. They locked me in here and they won’t let me out.”

“I’m sorry it’s been a stressful first week on the planet,” Rung said. His more delicate components were starting to sizzle faintly. “I’d like to get you out of here as soon as we safely can. Will you come down here? I’d like to take a look at you.”

Rung reached up. Sunstorm glanced back nervously at the viewing window. Hmm.

“What are you worried about?” Rung asked.

Sunstorm curled back from him. “When I touch people, they scream. And the nurses grab me and drag me around. I don’t want them to come in.”

“It’s okay,” Rung said again. “They sent me in here to get readings, no one will be mad at you for touching me. Come on, kneel down.”

With another reluctant look at the window, Sunstorm lowered himself to his knees and sat back. His palms rubbed over his thighs reflexively—Rung could already tell this poor bot was going to be battling paint flake for the rest of his life, with a nervous habit like that.

“That’s good,” Rung said, “will you shunt back your chest plating so I can get a look at your spark vivacity? 

Sunstorm’s plating tightened, but he didn’t pull away. “Will it hurt?”

Rung shook his head. “It won’t hurt, I’m just going to estimate it based on visual data and heat output.” Ideally they would be using instruments for the most accurate readings, but since fine instruments wouldn’t be able to withstand the radiation for very long, Rung would just have to guess based on the difference in ambient conditions and Sunstorm’s spark compared against them. “I will need to touch you, though, to get your temperature.”

Sunstorm fidgeted. “Don’t grab me. I don’t want to be grabbed.”

“I won’t grab you, sweetie,” Rung said. He held out his open hand. Not a threat, not a threat, not ever a threat. “I’m just going to press flat against the casing around your spark, okay?”

Sunstorm flicked and then dropped his wings. “Okay,” he said. The panels of his chest hissed and popped free, sliding back over the top of his turbines to reveal a spark the pure uncanny green of depleted uranium casings. Rung jerked his hand back, instincts screaming _danger! danger!_

A Point One Percenter? Or something stranger? He wished someone had thought to warn him beforehand. Surely they’d _seen_ Sunstorm’s spark when he was protoform, translucent and new. Perhaps it had changed color as the radiation strengthened?

He steadied himself, and pressed his palm to the scalding metal. He made a mental note of the temperature differential and then slid sideways along the metal, checking the diffusion of heat. The output was much higher than normal, even for someone experiencing emotional distress, and it didn’t fade much as one moved away from the spark itself.

“That’s enough for now,” Rung said. “You can close back up.”

After a moment of frustration, Sunstorm seemed to figure out the trigger. His chest folded closed again.

“I’m sure you’re not doing it on purpose, but do you feel that difference in the air now?” Rung asked. “Do you feel how hot it is? Can you feel something happening inside you that’s different from how you were a few minutes ago?”

Sunstorm closed his hand around one broad shoulder, hugging himself. His mouth wobbled as he nodded.

“That’s radioactivity,” Rung explained. “There’s something inside of you generating these radioactive waves, and it’s very dangerous to the rest of us. They can’t let you out until they know how to stop people from getting hurt by it. It isn’t punishment, I promise, we just want to keep everyone safe.”

Sunstorm’s face screwed up in acute distress, his fingers squeezing his shoulder reflexively. “You mean I’m hurting you? Right now?”

“Shh, sweetie, it’s okay, don’t worry about me.”

“But I’m _hurting_ you!”

“It’s alright, I’ll be alright,” Rung said. He took Sunstorm’s face in his hands and gently pulled it into the crook of his shoulder. The bagging that Glit’s nurses had wrapped him in immediately melted open, exposing his shoulder to the hot jab of Sunstorm’s nose. “Relax your wings, sweetie. That’s good. There you go. Now open up your vents. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Just try to get your frame to cool down.”

Rung held himself very still and open, despite the fact that his shoulder was starting to scream with exposure warnings. This felt very, strangely, familiar. A memory shook loose from the creep-chewed recesses of his most distant recollection, bites all taken out of it, data blurred. What had he done before medical school, in the dark ages? Hadn’t he been in a place like this before, black crosses and soft voices, holding a new-build like this, talking someone through their first attack of panic?

Slowly, as Rung walked him through the venting exercises he had taught to countless patients before, Sunstorm began to cool off. First it was just the heat of his out-vents, but then it was a gradual cooling in the air around them, and then the low grade itch of radiation dying away. A little at a time, Rung’s delicate circuitry stopped sizzling under the stress. 

It seemed as though he’d been right to think there was a correlation between the radioactive state and the emotional state. He gave Sunstorm another moment to cool off, and then he pulled back.

“See,” he said, patting the jet on his shoulder, “you’re already doing better. Now, if you think you’re up for it, I’d like to do a couple manual exams. Do you think that would be okay?”

Sunstorm glanced up from the hand on his arm and gave Rung one of the most heartbreakingly unsure looks Rung had ever received. “Okay,” he said.

It wouldn’t hurt, of course, but having a stranger put their hands all over you could be a stressful experience all the same. And without instruments, the only hope Rung had of getting any sort of data regarding cable tension or optical health was going to involve some very careful palpitations. They would have to go carefully. Very carefully, and very slowly. 

That was all right. Rung had the time. He dug into his subspace and pulled out a piece of candy, blue rock crystal. “That’s the spirit,” he said. “We’ll be done before you know it.”

\---

Contents of the Official Cybertronian Juvenile Education Download, 10 Step Program as Outlined by the Ministry of New-Spark Affairs under Sentinel Prime

1\. Sensory suite integration: visual, auditory, taste, and electromagnetic

2\. Kinesthetic tutorial, virtual practice room

3\. Neo Cybex language packet: essential vocabulary in both audio and visual representations

4\. Social protocols

5\. Grand Cybertronian Taxonomy (Abridged)

6\. Essential cosmology: laws of physics, anatomy of matter, relevant astronomical cartography

7\. History of Cybertron: War of the Primes, Dark Age, Golden Age, Silver Age, Present

8\. Civics and functions of government (10.666.17 patch “seditious activity and how to spot it”)

9\. The Classics: great works, composers, and intellectual movements

10\. Basic Hygiene and Maintenance: Your Frame And You


	2. Some Beautiful Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week 2: things are going well. we hope.

The afternoon of that first visit with Sunstorm, Rung had thought Wheeljack’s optics were about to pop out of their sockets when he finally opened up Rung’s shoulder casing to reveal the blackened, thoroughly corroded inner pistons. While he held still so that Wheeljack could take some readings of his internal circuitry (badly scalded, yes), he thought for a long time about Sunstorm alone in his box.

Educational downloads were no replacement for the experience of the world itself, for meeting fellow living beings, for the terror and reward of knowing and being known. To be born at all was such a terrifying thing. To know so little… to be so young… 

It was horrible to be put under a microscope, even by good people, even with a lifetime of experience to temper the sensation of becoming _object._ How much worse must it be to never have known anything else?

“All done,” said Wheeljack, patting Rung’s closed-up armor. Rung smiled like the good-humored patient he ought to be and suppressed a shudder at the ghostly sensation of Wheeljack’s fingers on his gears.

Had Sunstorm _ever_ felt a gentle touch? Or had it all been tests and measurements, trying to find out what made him tick?

The thought lingered. It lingered through the length of an appointment with Whirl who, though an Autobot, had been bounced between every therapist left on the ‘Bot side and several NAILS who thought themselves brave enough to handle it, until he finally landed in Rung’s hands. He actually asked if Rung was ‘okay,’ which was both marvellous progress in terms of his emotional awareness, and a sobering reminder to Rung that his problems needed to remain sequestered to his personal time.

This problem refused to be sequestered. All afternoon, all week, Rung thought about the seeker in the crystal box.

In the end, he opened a channel to Deadlock and tentatively asked if they could talk about his calendar. 

It took a few days before Rung could find enough time in his schedule for the train ride out to the Light House, but in an unusual fit of determination he managed to carve out some time by canceling two separate meetings with the Ambus brothers—a feat unparalleled in modern administration. The first cancellation had been surprisingly simple. He’d only had to promise Dominus that he would make time later to sit for an interview with some documentarian once this spark harvest was all over. 

The second cancellation had been more… complex. Somehow it had resulted in both success and the gift of the book he was now carrying tucked under his arm. It was hard copy, made out of something tough and possibly plastic, with pages you could leaf through manually. A luxurious relic of a time when you could afford to own a thing that couldn’t be wiped and rewritten when the mission changed.

Glit met him at the front of the neophytes ward.

“We managed to get a few more instrument readings, before he melted the probe,” Glit filled Rung in, shaking out his components as he shifted into feline mode. During the war, Rung remembered, when they had been in the same chain of command, Glit had always preferred to have thumbs while on the clock. He must have been getting off shift.

“He melted the needle?” Rung said.

“Straight into his port,” Glit confirmed. “Don’t worry, we tipped him sideways and the probe dripped right out, he’s fine. Presumably. But we haven’t let anyone else in since then. Whatever you did to calm him down, we haven’t been able to replicate it.”

“I should think not,” Rung said, “if you haven’t sent anyone else inside since.”

Glit leapt up into a visitor’s bench and curled around himself, tail flicking. “Frankly, Rung, we’re at a loss. The only one with the skillset to figure this outlier ability is Shockwave, and you know the sun will go cold before the ‘bots let him even sit _down_ in front of a parole board.”

“Even then,” Rung murmured. “What about Wheeljack, he’s been heavily involved in the neo-natal project with the spliced-sparks in storage. Couldn’t he help?”

Glit’s ears flicked back. “You want to let an Autobot scientist work on the kid? He’ll probably end up wired to detonate, if they don’t just scrub him entirely.”

“Wheeljack has been my attending medic,” Rung said. He let a note of warning slip into his voice. “Ever since the… head trauma. He’s probably the best warm-engineer we have left.”

“And he spent the last thousand years making weapons,” Glit replied, “pardon me if I’m not eager to let him tinker inside of my patients.”

Rung shook his head, but there wasn’t much he could say to that. Wheeljack _had_ designed a terrible portion of the weapons that Decepticons had once lived in fear of. If Ratchet hadn’t vouched for him so ardently, Rung might not have acquiesced to meet with him either. In point of fact, the Autobot scientist was congenial almost to the point of parody, but you wouldn’t know that from his reputation.

A disconcerting amount of Autobots were like that. Rung had needed to take a breather after meeting Brainstorm for the first time. They simply had so much to _say_.

“Let’s shelve the question of Wheeljack, then,” Rung said, already making plans for an ‘accidental’ introduction. “There may be something we can do in the meantime, just those of us regular laymen.”

Glit eyed him. “You planning some primal mojo, boss?”

Rung sighed. “I’m going to _work_ with him,” he said, and tapped his fingers against the book under his arm. “His episodes are as much emotional as mechanical, and although I can’t think of anyone else here who can help with the mechanical side of it, I think I can help him learn how to control it from the other end.”

Glit twitched an ear, and then flowed into a luxurious stretch. “If you think it’ll work. I don’t think it would hurt to try. Make sure there’s an orderly ready to pull you out if the kid crashes you.”

Rung let himself relax for the first time since arriving. “Thank you, Glit. You always were willing to take the important risks. I hope I won’t let you down.”

Glit leapt down from the bench and made his way to the exit, his lean shoulder nearly brushing Rung’s hip. “Hey,” he said, “what’s the worst you can do? Like you said, it ain’t right to keep a kid alone like that.”

Rung blew out a stale vent and straightened himself up. Then, remembering in a flash, called after Glit: “He needs furniture in there!” At Glit’s half-turn in the doorway, he clarified, “Well, he needs _something_ , and a table will do for now.”

“I’m not a quartermaster,” said Glit, but his tail flicked. “I’ll see what we can do.”

\---

Tourism was a foreign word on Cybertron even before the war broke out. Working bots came and went from city to city, sure, but there wasn’t a lot of ogling the architecture or reading plaques about the construction date of a garden. Just try and get close enough to even _see_ the Primal Palace past those big thick walls, and you’d find a shock stick in places you’d _wish_ you didn’t have. Keep your eyes down, go for a drink in whatever district your alt class belongs to, and don’t touch the shiny pretty things in the world above your head.

Jazz had been around, and he’d seen a lot of things. But fine architecture and sprawling vistas had not been for the likes of him, at least not without a real good set of magnets and a criminal disregard for public and private property alike. 

But then there was the war, and the peace, and then the colonies got back in touch, and now from time to time you could catch a Camien wandering the bombed out wreckage of sprawling palaces and shattered towers, their heads craned back to take image captures. Some longing for a homeland, Jazz thought; there had been some beautiful stuff on their planet before. A lot of it was slagged out ruins now.

Tetrahex was still mostly intact, though, and what wasn’t entirely together was in varying stages of reconstruction. The Tetrahex Opera House, enormous and palatial, had opened its doors to walk throughs in all the sections that were safe enough to walk through. In the parks, Velocitronians stared up at war monuments, chasing some morbid second-hand grief, some safe-to-touch catharsis.

Jazz watched them. He watched their shiny fingers reaching up to touch the polished onyx, touching glyphs for the names of people—wondered, behind the impassive glass of his visor, whether he’d seen that name die, or the next one—

A set of miniature fingers grabbed at his wrist. He stiffened. Countless specialty mods tried to turn themselves on. He switched each targeting lock back off as soon as it came online.

“Yeah, kiddo?” he said.

Bright eyed and worryingly small, his conjunx’s kid had grabbed his wrist and was now tugging it meaningfully. “Starscream says I can’t climb the statue. Tell him I can climb the statue!”

Jazz glanced aside at the crumbling statue of Primus, the pedestal of which was probably three times as big as Ostaros. 

“Aw Screamer, you don’t think the li’l bot can do it?”

Up ahead, at the edge of the rock garden, Starscream was irritably digging pebbles out of the delicate opening of his heel thrusters. His wings jerked to keep balance as he wobbled. “No!” Starscream snapped. He thumped his fist against the side of his thruster and a trail of gravel poured out. 

Jazz grinned. He considered the statue again, and then hefted Ostaros up onto his hip. “Just need a boost,” he said, and walked them both back to the statue. The second Ostaros’ little feet hit the pedestal, he was off like a scraplet, sharp nails digging right into the crumbly soft metal. The whole thing had been eaten away by acid rain to the point where nothing was left of the head, and the skyward edges had become a lacework of acid-chewed bronze. Ostaros scaled it one crumbly handhold after another.

Starscream stomped over and glowered at Jazz’s side. 

“I’m not going up and getting him down,” Starscream said. “ _You_ did this, so it’s _your_ problem when he falls into that thing’s open neck and gets eaten by a statue.”

Jazz lifted a hand to shade his visor. “He’s really goin’ for it, huh?”

“I didn’t think he _couldn’t_ do it, I thought he _shouldn’t_.” Starscream gestured at a couple tourists who’d stopped to watch a genuine local cyberorganic creature climb the colossus. “It’s disrespectful.”

“A Decepticon respecting Primus?” Jazz put a hand over his spark in shock. “Well, I guess you have a different perspective on it, now that you’re fragging him.”

Starscream didn’t look exactly mollified. Smug, more like.

“I don’t think Rung’s built quite like that, though.” Jazz ran an assessing optic over the statue’s chest, which Ostaros was in the process of crawling over. “Not exactly a _built_ mech, if you know what I mean.”

“I like how Rung’s built,” sniffed Starscream.

“Star!” shrieked Ostaros, waving his hands from the top of the statue. “Star! Look! I’m tall!”

“Amazing,” called Starscream. “You’ll rain destruction down on us all. Anyway,” he turned back to Jazz, “ _I’ve_ agreed to help Megatron put on one of his little farces, and the rehearsal work starts next week. So _you_ had better be ready to handle the child emperor of destruction here by yourself pretty soon.”

Jazz shot him a sideways look. “That starved for a spotlight, huh?”

“I’ll have you know Megatron asked _me_ to play the part.” Starscream examined his sky-blue talons, a picture of disinterest. “He _begged_ me, basically. Something about the meta commentary on my public persona. Anyway how hard can it be to memorize a script? _Sixshot_ does it every quartex, and he’s an imbecile. The viewing experience can only be improved.”

Jazz, who couldn’t even imagine stuffing himself into a dark crowded theater full of strangers with his back to the exit, decided not to open up that can of wrigglers. At least Megatron’s theater had a weapons at the door confiscation policy. He was _pretty_ sure Starscream wouldn’t get assassinated on opening night. That was the last thing their fragged-up little democracy needed right now, a successful assassination.

“You can take emperor minibot to the premier,” Starscream said, flicking a bit of statue-dust off his shoulder. “He should have some culture. When I was his age I’d already seen _Birth of Cybertron_ twenty times. Even a production at _Broken Cogs_ is better than whatever bootleg action slag he was getting out in the boonies.”

Sour anxiety shot through Jazz’s lines at the idea of Ostaros in that dark, crushing mass. Suddenly a door policy didn’t seem all that comforting. In the dark, with all those strangers, and after what happened to Rung in broad _daylight_ —

“Nah,” Jazz said. “Can you imagine the kid sitting still for that long? Let alone sitting _quiet.”_

“Mmm,” Starscream said, which was as close to agreement as he usually got. “I’ll have Optimus’s little flashdrive friend make a take-home version for him. Since it _does_ fall on me to be the sole arbiter of class and sophistication in a young mech’s life. He’ll want to see me in action, after all, who _wouldn’t_ —”

“Hey,” said Jazz, looking at the empty spot on the statue where Ostaros had been. “Where’s the kid?”

Despite his earlier disclaimers, Starscream immediately jetted into the air, the heat of his thrusters singeing Jazz’s plating. He was at the top of the statue in less than a second, sticking his helm down the neck and calling Ostaros’ name.

When that didn’t get any response, Jazz started scanning the crowd. His targeting computer sprang up like it’d just been idling for this moment, categorizing the mechs in the park. Just about all of them pinged as a potential threat, he didn’t have enough _intel_ —

“Excuse me,” said someone behind him. “Does this belong to you?”

Jazz spun, three separate systems readied for light, heavy, and lethal response. Then he caught his vent as he came face to face with Ostaros, who was being held at arm’s length by a rust-vendor.

Jazz forced a grin. “More or less. He’s a new Cybertronian, belongs to himself—I’m just looking after him.”

“Huh.” The rust-vendor carefully set Ostaros on his feet. “I didn’t know they were coming out of the hot spot like that. Thought maybe it was an alien. Pretty small for a mech.”

“Yeah, well.” Jazz looked at Ostaros, who was suspiciously quiet. And… chewing. Damn. “How much do I owe you?”

“It got three boxes,” said the rust-vendor. “Fifteen shanix.”

“You’re gouging me here,” said Jazz, but he pulled the cred stick anyway. “He, not it, okay?”

“Whatever you say.” The rust-vendor was already turning away when Starscream landed at Jazz’s side and swept Ostaros up into his arms.

“Where have you _been_?” demanded Starscream.

“He was snatching sweets,” said Jazz. “Hey, kid, if you want something you gotta ask me or Screamer. You can’t just take stuff.”

“Papa said desire and possession are the whole of the law,” said Ostaros, his voice muffled by Starscream’s chest-plating.

 _And Papa’s in jail now,_ Jazz didn’t say. No one needed to hear that about a mentor. Anyway, Starscream was too busy smothering the kid.

There was only so much of Tarantulas’ influence anyone could undo in a day. Earlier when they’d been taking the kid around uptown, he’d taken a good long look at the elegant artistry of the Primal Confabula and asked them where the _dissections_ happened. It had taken Jazz a while to explain that not everything having to do with Primus involved dissections. In fact, _most_ of it did not.

They walked around the park for a little longer, and Starscream never let Ostaros loose without a hand somewhere on his plating. It didn’t matter—Jazz couldn’t get the targeting computer to kick off until they were back in his apartment and all seven of the locks on the front door were engaged.

“Did you have a good time in the park?” asked Prowl, later, when he was back from work and Jazz could relax on the couch with a couple of his more strenuous surveillance programs disengaged. Prowl asked this question with all the disaffected thoroughness of a commander expecting a field report.

“Yeah!” said Ostaros, without even a hint of guile. “When can we go again?”

"I'm sure Jazz would be happy to take you," Prowl said.

Jazz slumped exhausted into the couch with heat pouring from his vents, and thought longingly of coolant.

\---

The isolation room was much as Rung had left it, last week. Sunstorm was pacing this time, but he stopped dead when he noticed motion in the corner of his visual reach. Rung waved at him through the window; his engine raced in his chassis with some bright, odd kind of anticipation. 

“Oh!” Sunstorm mouthed, and stumbled forward to press his hands against the fuzzy glass. His mouth shaped something like, “It’s you again!”

Rung beamed at him. Such a small thing, to be remembered fondly. Was it selfish to be glad of it?

He didn’t bother with the protective bagging this time; it had done him little good last time as far as he could tell. There had still been melted material clinging to the inside of his shoulder joint, when Wheeljack had opened him up for repairs. Instead he simply opened the shielded door and stepped in, ready to accept the consequences.

As the isolation unit door shut closed behind Rung, Sunstorm said, “I don’t—I can’t remember your name. Did you tell me your name?”

“My name is Rung,” said Rung, who was used to that by now. He held out his hand. “We didn’t really get an official introduction last time, so let’s do that now. Hello, I’m Rung. I’m the administrator for the general hospital right now, but my training is as a psychiatrist. That means I try to help people learn how to be themselves in a comfortable and safe way.”

Sunstorm looked at his hand, hesitating, and then took hold of it. They shook hands very slowly, as Sunstorm fumbled to match the grip and direction of his hand.

“I’m Sunstorm. I don’t, um, have a function yet. Unless being a seeker is a function? The downloads were vague and kind of made me mad, so I skipped them. I’m sorry.”

“That’s understandable,” Rung said. He let go, and then waited for Sunstorm to realize that he could let go as well. “A lot of our basic orientation material is vastly out of date. So far no one has had the time or the resources to devote to making alternatives for all the material the Functionist Council produced, before the war.”

And with all these new sparks popping out of the ground now, wasn’t _that_ a troubling oversight. Rung wasn’t even sure where they ought to begin, straightening the whole thing out. They’d need a commission on newframe development, researchers, program writers… It wasn’t his job, really, but whose job was it? And the responsibility, ultimately, _was_ Rung’s...

Sunstorm nodded, but didn’t seem to actually understand yet. “What’s that?” he said, leaning in to peer at Rung’s armload. 

“It’s a book,” Rung said, unfolding it in his hands for Sunstorm’s perusal. “Hard copy, no electronic components. You should be able to handle it without causing it undue damage.”

Sunstorm poked it, and then flipped a page with a fingertip. “How does it work?”

“Ah!” Rung said, “I would be more than happy to show you!”

A bit of polite shuffling and embarrassed excitement found them seated on the floor, Sunstorm’s back to the wall, Rung perched on his thigh with the book spread out over their laps. It was a sizable book, on account of being an encyclopedia of all life on the planet Cybertron with full color illustrations. It was a very rare item, nearly one of a kind, and absolutely obsolete. 

“So you begin with the first page,” Rung said, flipping back to the start, “here, in the corner, and then you work your way down--”

The artwork was gorgeous, full of glittering metallic paints and ornate borders. Of course all this information was easily available on the grid if one had access, or in any thousands of data downloads with full 3D rendering and interactive diagrams; the only reason to produce something static like this was for the sheer beauty of it. Surprisingly, the one who had given it to him had not been an artist or a collector or anything of the sort. It had been Minimus Ambus, of the dour and interminable memos.

They’d spoken the day before. “You’ll be visiting the outlier again tomorrow?” Minimus had asked, once Rung finished begging his leave of the meeting they were scheduled to have together today. “At the natal facility?”

“That’s the plan,” Rung had said. At the time, he had just opened his calendar up on his work monitor and was already searching for some other meeting he could potentially move around, having little faith that Minimus Ambus would be willing to bend his schedule to accommodate anything short of world shattering cataclysm. And even then, he would probably expect the cataclysm to provide forty-eight hour notice.

“He is in isolation, currently, pending medical procedure?” 

“Yes,” Rung said. “Yes, they can’t let him out until it’s safe.”

Minimus was silent for a moment, oddly. And then he said, “Understanding the world becomes difficult, the longer one is delayed from entering it. The world becomes something other. Mechanisms become something other. The divide is… difficult to breach.”

Rung paused, intensely curious, and afraid to ruin the moment with commentary. After another long, inscrutable pause, Minimus said: “He will need to be introduced to the outside world as quickly as possible, to avoid cognitive shuttering.”

“Yes,” Rung said, breathlessly delighted, “yes, that is the term for it. The window for the unconscious integration of new data is closing slowly but surely.” 

“In order to acclimatize him to the complexity of life on the planet, such as it is,” Minimus said, “I will provide you with reference material. A courier will deliver it to you in two point five hours. Have your secretary sign for it.”

“I, um,” Rung said. “Thank you—”

“I will prepare you an electronic briefing on the disaster preparedness bill,” Minimus said. “If you will review it in full, in-person discussion may not be necessary. The guidelines for implementation are fairly straightforward. If your staff have any concerns about their ability to comply, please forward me the details by close of business.”

“Oh,” Rung said, dropping his hand from the calendar. “Oh, that would be—” he remembered Minimus’ dislike of exaggeration at the last moment, “—very agreeable! Thank you!”

And that was how Rung had ended up here, with Sunstorm, in possession of what was very likely a priceless antique unlike anything surviving the war today. His fingers passed over a delicate illustration of the burrowers that made their home in the acid wastes, lumpy shells and delicate drillbit mouths. The accompanying article was dry, but Sunstorm seemed riveted anyhow. 

By the end of the section on insecticon breeds, Sunstorm was calm enough to weather a surface level medical probe from some of Rung’s nearly indestructible wartime equipment, which he had pulled out of storage specifically for this encounter. As Sunstorm traced the figures of a splash page, picking out the chambers of Vector Sigma one by one, Rung skimmed output levels and error messages from his diagnostic interface.

Something warm and almost painful found its way into Rung’s chest. For a moment he worried that the radiation had begun to fry his intake tubing, and was three steps into planning how to get out and get medical assistance without upsetting Sunstorm, when it occurred to him that this wasn’t a medical problem at all. His mechanisms were fine. It was his meta that was acting unusually.

He watched Sunstorm’s fingers moving reverently over the page, and felt the strange, bittersweet sensation of care settle into the pit of his throat.

\---

Dear All,

Well Rung is in better spirits now you will all be glad to know. Ratchet said this is because Rung is getting laid again which based on the length of his lunch breaks now is probably true but I attribute the bulk of the improvement to his visits at the newly reconstructed Light House. Rung tells me he has been taking a certain new-build under his figurative wing and I think it is helping him to process his anxieties about being Primus although as I have told him several times I am sure he will do a great job and we are all rooting for him.

Our sister in Primus Roadflare of Caminus has written to me saying she decided to mentor the set of twins from last week’s harvest which we were trying to place so I hope we will all wish her well and send good vibrations along the cosmic pathways to shield her sparklings from the evil eye of Unicron. The Prime says for me to tell you that he is still not ready for mentorship and to please stop asking him about this when he is on his coolant breaks at the cafe as the constant questioning only makes his parental anxiety even more severe.

This week Rung’s aura is a vibrant magenta. For those of you who do card casting make sure to attune your frequency to the signifier of the constellation of the scales. The spacedock has got a shipment of offworld building material yesterday and if you go there with cash in hand as I did last night after my shift they will sell you chunks of opalite for much cheaper than Swindle’s virtual warehouse. 

Yours in Primus,

(Drift) Deadlock of Rodion


	3. Reasonable Concerns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week three. Some road bumps are encountered. Ancient history is put away.

Jazz’d had a long day. He’d handled the kid alone, for most of it—it was Rung’s day off, apparently, and Starscream had better things to do than pal around with his amica’s peripherals. So it had just been Jazz and Ostaros, until Prowl came back from work. To give Prowl credit, he took his shifts with the kid seriously. Jazz had caught some time to himself, sitting at the kitchen table with his visor half lit while he listened to Prowl and Ostaros ‘playing Rambotron’ in the living room.

Jazz had played the Rambotron game before, and it mostly involved gurgling and crying out in mock-pain as Rambotron née Ostaros wrestled your shin. Prowl was welcome to it, even if his so-called agonized screams were a little more like grunts and _still_ grated on Jazz’s nerves. 

Anyway. The day was over, Ostaros was in his berth, and Jazz was tired all the way down to his struts. Which was why it was unfair that he couldn’t recharge.

Prowl made a fizzing static noise when Jazz got up, and tried to clutch at Jazz’s arm. Jazz grinned down at him. It was almost worth the sleeplessness, just to watch Prowl. He was cute when his processor wasn’t booted up yet.

“Just checking on something,” Jazz whispered, and then slipped out of the room.

Ostaros was just down the hall, in what would’ve been the guest bedroom if Prowl had any close friends or if Jazz would let any of his friends into their apartment. Starscream had recharged there, once or twice, but mostly he liked sleeping on top of Prowl and trying to subtly maneuver Jazz out of the berth. The guest bedroom had been empty for months before Ostaros took it over.

They left the door open at night, and Jazz didn’t need to turn on any lights to watch Ostaros’ wings flicking in his sleep.

He worried, sometimes, about—Frag, too much. Sometimes he worried about the soup thing. What if it just _happened_ , one of these nights when they weren’t expecting it? What if they woke up to find Ostaros puddled over the berth? Jazz felt a cold grip close around his spark and tried to stop thinking about it. There wasn’t anything he could do about it now. He didn’t have enough intel. He could ask Tarantulas about it, if they took the kid to visit him. He was _not_ going to break into a high-security holding cell in the middle of the night to ask about the whole cocooning process. He wasn’t.

There was another shift in the dark as Ostaros flicked his wings again. In the greenish gloom of Jazz’s nightvision, he was a jumble of curled up parts, miniature arms, twitching fingers. If there was one thing about Tarantulas that Jazz could understand, it was the impulse to take this tiny thing and hide it from the world, scavenge every stealth mod he could find and pack it inside the fragile frame. How could anywhere in the galaxy be safe for something so helpless?

Jazz retreated, into the hall, one silent step after another, and then went to slump on the couch with his face in his hands.

He had overrides for this. He knew he did. He’d been in deep cover in enemy strongholds and he’d needed to recharge or else die, too slow to finish the job. He could turn this off, he could turn this all off, feel nothing, smile—

There was a twanging noise. Jazz raised his face from his hands.

“Kid,” he said, suppressing his alert systems with an immense and increasingly routine effort, “that’s not for playing with.”

“But it’s an _instrument_ ,” said Ostaros, his hand buried in Jazz’s electro-sitar, which had definitely been in its case the last time Jazz had thought about it. “You gotta play it.”

“It’s a different kinda playing,” said Jazz. “And I can’t do it properly when Prowl’s asleep. Come on, get up here. What are you doing out of berth?”

Ostaros clambered up to sit on the couch, his claws leaving snags in the soft woven material. “I heard a noise.”

“Probably me,” said Jazz. No point denying it—Ostaros had more sensors than any right-thinking mechanism needed. “So you can go back to sleep, right?”

Ostaros shook his helm.

“Aw come on, it’s the middle of the night. How come?”

“Not tired,” Ostaros said. “You’re up, so I can be up too.”

Jazz clicked his tongue. This was the trickiest part of being responsible for someone else’s unholy living experiment. “You’ll be tired in the morning.”

“Well, so will you,” Ostaros said, with a touch of Prowl’s inexorable logic.

Jazz didn’t have an answer to that. He _would_ be tired. 

Ostaros was shooting the sitar furtive little looks, while his claws picked out threads in the fabric of the couch. It was a nice couch. Jazz had liberated it from a collapsed countryside villa during the early days of reconstruction, and presented it to Prowl as a late courting gift. Prowl had called it very adequate, which was basically as impressed as he got. Jazz toyed with asking Ostaros to lay off on shredding it, but who cared, right? It was just a thing.

“How come you never play?” Ostaros said.

Jazz followed his gaze to the sitar, mapping the familiar now-dusty edges of the instrument. Silver and red enamel, curves as sleek as Jazz’s alt-mode, twenty-one steel strings, frets and endless pegs. The wholeness of it intimidated Jazz. Trying to figure out where to start after all this time was like trying to unravel the course of history.

“We lost a lot during the war,” Jazz said, “when the servers got bombed. Libraries went down like dominoes. Even before that, people were dumping their storage to make room for mods, tactical upgrades. It’s quiet now.”

“It’s not that quiet!” Ostaros said. “It’s really loud here, there’s so many people. It’s like a trading post!”

“Hey, now, keep it down for Prowl,” said Jazz. “But, yeah, I guess it would seem pretty busy to you.” As far as he could tell, Ostaros had been raised in a series of backwater laboratories, well beyond the grinding edge of civilization. “You like it here?”

“Uhuh,” said Ostaros. “It’s fun.”

“It was more fun before the war,” Jazz said. “You could have music any time, back then. There was music everywhere, in the elevator, on the street, in the cafes—folks would just walk down the street sometimes, full of music. You’d pick up the chorus as your arms brushed and you’d spend the rest of the day humming along. Hardly anybody’s got music like that now.”

“I have music!” Ostaros said, just a shade below yelling out of respect for his recharging CNA-donor. “Papa let me download a whole gigabyte of whatever I wanted into my long term storage.”

Jazz paused. What were the chances Ostaros had something classic he’d been looking for? “Whatcha got?” he asked, trying not to get his hopes up. Could be. Stuff survived on the rim of the galaxy, away from the war front. 

Ostaros puffed up. “ _All_ the soundtracks from _all_ the Rambotron movies. And this cool penny whistle thing this one species does with their _nose,_ and uhhhh some crickets I recorded once when I was bored.”

Jazz huffed a laugh. Figured. “Very cool, my mech. You’ll be a walking discotheque in no time.”

“Did you used to play?” Ostaros asked, “Back when it was louder?”

“Yeah,” Jazz said, “yeah kid, I used to play a hell of a set for the racer crowd at Maccadam’s, didn’t have a wallflower in the place. Played for Blurr a couple times, before he was an Autobot.”

Ostaros shuffled a little closer on the couch, pinging Jazz’s proximity sensors a couple times before Jazz shut them off. “Who’s Blurr?” he asked.

“Oh, right. He was a racer. You know what a racer is?” Ostaros shook his head. “Basically folks pay to see how fast you can go. Always had an entourage with him. Hard drinkers. Big attitude.”

Ostaros settled against Jazz’s side, and Jazz thumbed vaguely at the kid’s helm. He remembered the first time he’d played for Blurr. Mech thought he was too good to dance, right up until Jazz came down into the crowd and pulled him out away from the table, microphone still in hand. He’d kissed more racers that night than most mechs ever said a word to.

“Did a set every night, before my shift. We’d get there a couple hours ‘fore sunset and the band would put up the stage. More mics and extension cords than you could shake a strut at. Barmech would bring us a round of something cheap, we’d bolt it down while we slapped the last patch on the equipment, then the doors’d open and we’d take a couple vents while the place filled up. I used to sit up on the amp, back behind the lights, watching the crowd roll in.”

The smell of the heat from the stage lights, the band back behind the curtain touching up their temp paint, the early crowd buying bottle service and poaching the good tables one after another. It all flushed back through Jazz, achingly sweet and bitter. 

“None of that probably means a thing to you, huh kid?” Jazz paused. “Kid?”

He looked down. Ostaros had downshifted into standby mode, his lights all dark, limbs and neck slack against Jazz’s side. 

“Get you back to recharge,” murmured Jazz, and scooped Ostaros up. “Put anyone to sleep, listening to a has-been like me talk about a bunch of people that are probably mostly dead.”

They didn’t make clubs like Maccadam’s anymore—not the old Maccadam’s. It’d had a mixed clientele, full of the furtive joy of a bunch of mechs who felt like they were getting away with something. Bars nowadays were just uncomfortable, crowded, not enough sightlines, full of unpredictable drunks.

Jazz deposited Ostaros on his berth and tucked him in. Then he walked himself back to his own berth, and tucked himself around Prowl.

“Hnn,” said Prowl, as Jazz maneuvered one arm under Prowl’s neck and slung the other over Prowl’s generous bumper.

“Shh.” Jazz nuzzled Prowl’s neck. “It’s alright, go back to sleep.”

“Ost?” Prowl’s vocalizer clicked a couple times. “Ostaros?”

“He’s fine,” said Jazz. “I just got the itch to check.”

“Mm.” Prowl’s biolights flickered, dim and on their way to stand-by. “Always fine.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jazz should’ve left it there, but he was tired and it so badly wanted to spill out. Maybe Prowl, softened and about ten percent conscious, would reassure him. “I just worry. Sometimes I think, you know, what if something went wrong with him? Neither of us are deranged scientists, we couldn’t fix him. What if he turns into soup and just melts away? Is that sparkling endangerment? Mechslaughter? Would we have to go on the run? We’re not qualified for this, Prowler.”

Prowl patted Jazz’s hand, slow and heavy. “Don’ worry.”

Jazz let out a vent. “Yeah, I try not to—”

“Doesn’t even legally exist yet. Couldn’t get arrested.”

It took Jazz a second to parse that, because it was _so_ far out from where his processor was living that it barely even made sense. “Babe, that doesn’t actually help.”

Prowl’s engine hummed, smooth and untroubled. His biolights were all dark.

After a minute or two, Jazz started the sequence that would forcibly kick him into recharge. It was fine. There was a failsafe to reboot him if anyone attempted an assassination.

\---

This time, when Rung came to the Light House, it was two steps at a time, with a new book tucked tightly under his arm as he jogged past the receptionist with barely a pause for a permissions check. It was technically his fuel break for the day, although he doubted he would be back to the office by the end of a normal midshift break. The isolation room was as white and joyless as ever, but among the white, Glit had apparently managed to requisition some hardy basic furniture. 

Rung gave the nurse an appreciative smile; the nurse gave him a complicated, disapproving look in return. That was odd, but then again, Rung had gotten used to weird looks early on, as a known former Decepticon in an Autobot-dominated profession. Not to mention the recent matter of _divinity._ He tried to take it in stride.

Sunstorm was scrambling to his feet before Rung could finish letting himself through the door, his wings up and telegraphing excitement. He looked marginally more filled out than he had last week. Healthier.

“You came back!” he said, tripping a bit on his thrusters. “Nurse Clutch said you wouldn’t come back! But you did!”

Rung pulled out the white plastic bench at the white plastic table and settled himself in, laying the book aside in favor of more pressing concerns. “Now why would the nurse say that to you?”

“Because you’re God and you have more important things to do than visit some glitched jet in a nursery,” Sunstorm said, promptly. 

Rung opened his mouth, but all that came out was, “I...?”

“But I prayed and I prayed and now here you are!” Sunstorm went on, shoving the other bench out of the way and shuffling up to the edge of the low table on his knees. It put him just below Rung’s optic-level. Rung felt, unsettlingly, that it was on purpose. 

“You prayed?” said Rung, weakly.

Sunstorm nodded so enthusiastically that it made Rung feel dizzy. “I knew I must have been meant for something important, if you were here to meet me when I was so young! Only a week old, and I’d already met God! That’s amazing, that’s got to be amazing! You don’t do that for everyone, do you?” A vulnerable look passed over Sunstorm’s bright face. “Do you?”

“No, though perhaps I—” Rung caught himself. “No, you are a special case. You’re only three weeks old now?”

“I know!” Sunstorm said, “And I already feel so mature! Can you believe I didn’t even know who you were last week? I let you get burned! Well that won’t happen again, don’t worry, I’m much more mature now, I don’t need you to coddle me anymore.”

Rung felt a horrible drop in the pit of his tanks, as if his fuel had burned through the bottom of his stomach and splashed down into his pedes. His fingers fumbled with the book on the table, dragging it back tight against his chest as if to shield his spark.

“That’s,” he said. “I… I’m glad to hear that you’re feeling more confident and—and independant, Sunstorm.”

Sunstorm’s smile wavered for a klik. “You, um,” he said. “You normally—Well, sure, you wouldn’t need to call me sweetie anymore, would you. That’s fine, I’m not—Gods don’t call people _sweetie_ , do they, you must have been so embarrassed for me last time—”

“No, no,” Rung fumbled with the words, “no I, I mean if you _want_ me to, I’m more than happy to—I just thought, you seemed not to want—”

“No, you shouldn’t demean yourself,” Sunstorm insisted, “fancy someone important like _you_ being so familiar with _me,_ I’m sorry, don’t—”

 _“Please,”_ Rung said, almost desperate now, “I’ll call you whatever you’re comfortable being called. Whatever you like. It would make me very happy.”

Sunstorm chewed the inside of his cheek with those sharp incisors. So young, and he didn’t know how to ask for comfort from another mech. He still had scratches in his paint from picking at it. Rung felt helpless, and very foolish, even as he contemplated the viewing window at his back. Was the nurse on duty tonight this Clutch person? What would Clutch think of them, babbling at each other? What would he say to Sunstorm afterward?

“I brought you something else to read,” Rung said, disentangling the book from himself. 

“Oh!” Sunstorm brightened, relieved by the change in topic. “What is it? History? Mythology?”

Rung fought the urge to hide the cover of the book under his palms. “It’s, um,” he said, “it’s nothing that serious. I thought you would have covered all that with the schooling downloads?”

“Oh, well, sure,” Sunstorm said, “but you were really _there_ , weren’t you! So there must be all kinds of things you know. Holy secrets! Arcane truths!”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Rung, humbly. “I’m not anyone important, not _really_. I’m just Rung.” 

“But you’re God!” Sunstorm said.

The jet looked so hopeful, his red optics gleaming almost painfully bright (oh hmm, should they have that checked out?), that Rung suddenly felt very small and insufficient underneath the sheer force of his anticipation.

“It’s just, um,” Rung said, flipping the book open and paging haphazardly through it, “just something I like. I had the digital files saved through the war, so I thought—well there’s a data artificer now in Tetrahex, and he was able to transfer the files out to print…”

His hand smoothed over an illustration. This one was a drawing of the Matrix, heavily stylized. There were fewer pictures in this book; it hadn’t been a collector’s piece or anything so fancy as an Ambus heirloom. Just a little indulgence for a middle-caste mech who could afford to support the arts every now and again. He’d been one of those, for a time. Sometimes he longed for those days—though of course he wouldn’t trade his life with Starscream and Megatron for the world. But sometimes, when memories of the war tugged at him, and he felt the pressure of a mysterious and insufficient godhood, and he thought back on how easy everything had once seemed...

“This is a romance,” Rung said. “That is to say, a long poem about monsters and magic and people falling in love. After the dark ages, there was a lot of rose-colored reminiscing about the Primal Era. Predacons, savage aliens, quests for all sorts of silly relics.”

Rung resisted the urge to look up, as Sunstorm’s shadow shifted over the book.

“I thought you might like this one,” he said. “I used to like to read it when I was lonely. It’s full of wonderful friendships and true love, and there’s so many characters. There’s a newframe, like you—he’s Flashflare, see—and a noble alien warrior... not to spoil anything but they fall in love with one another, that one was _controversial_ when it came out, but I think it’s aged well—”

It dawned on Rung that Sunstorm had scooted around the side of the table and was kneeling next to him, watching him flip through the pages. His wings flicked, and then came to hover just by Rung’s shoulder. Something tight inside of Rung eased at the proximity.

Deep into Rung’s explanation of the characters and the setting, and what a predacon actually was (a hot topic of debate among historians, to be sure), Sunstorm flipped to the final page with the final illustration: a full group picture, all the heroes and sidekicks posed in bittersweet triumph around the fallen monument of their defeated enemy, the corrupted Czar. For a moment Rung assumed Sunstorm was interested in the characters posing, which was fairly stylized and most definitely a product of its day. Rung was quite sure that warbuilds couldn’t twist _quite_ like that with all their armor in the way.

But then Sunstorm asked, “When were you lonely?” 

Rung stumbled a few times over the other explanation already on the tip of his tongue. “I’m sorry?”

Sunstorm traced the face of a winged hero. “You said you used to read this when you were lonely,” he said. “But when would you have been lonely? You’re not a—you’re not like me, not like how I am.”

Rung looked down at the illustration again. Sunstorm may never have seen that many people together in his short life. Certainly never that many non-medics, mechs of all modes and styles and walks of life. 

“...I was isolated once, like you are now,” he said. “For a long time. It _felt_ like a long time. And I couldn’t go anywhere or see anyone, or do any of my work, or do anything but write and read.”

“Why?”

Rung hesitated. But this room was so white, and that voice was so small. “Maybe you and nurse Clutch think of me as holy now,” he said, “but that’s only been a very recent development in a remarkably long life. People used to think of me, _if_ they thought of me, as a freak. A problem that needed solving. And so eventually I found myself in a cell, in a building I couldn’t leave, waiting to be taken apart for the thousandth time. But I had this—and a few others—as files in my helm. And I could imagine myself where they are,” he tapped the picture, “having adventures.”

Long nights, in his immaculately furnished cell at the heart of the Functionist Research Center, letting the audio files of the author’s reading play over and over on a loop in the darkness. It was a shame the printed version couldn’t contain that for Sunstorm, too. He’d like to give Sunstorm the good parts, and spare him the pain.

“I always thought it would be nice,” he said, wistfully, “to be part of a big group of friends. Doing exciting things. Helping people. I said to myself, If I ever get out of here, I’ll join a starship and get off the planet. That was the big thing back then, thrilling space journeys into uncharted systems. Well, I tried with the Arc, and look how well that worked out for me…”

Sunstorm twisted, his wings moving the air at Rung’s back. You could almost feel the question forming on his lips.

Rung sat back abruptly. “Look at me,” he said, “going on about ancient history. Let’s not worry about all that business now. I thought maybe we could read the first chapter together, and I could answer some of your questions.” 

Sunstorm hesitated, and then nodded meekly.

“I wish there was a way to hyperlink you to an encyclopedia, but grid access will have to wait until you’re stable enough to use electronics by yourself.” Rung pushed the book slightly to the right, where Sunstorm could reach it more easily. “Go ahead, show me what you remember.”

Sunstorm flipped back to the first page and pointed the tip of his clawed finger at the first word on the page. He looked at Rung hopefully.

“Wonderful,” Rung said, “just so.” 

The story began with Flashflare coming online under the light of the twin full moons, far out beyond the salt pillars of the Ultihex wilderness. A light had streaked across the sky, and Flashflare’s first conscious awareness became the moment of an alien ship crashing in the midst of the hot spot field.

“If you’re very good,” Rung said, after they had finished the first chapter together, “and you keep your rad levels down for the nurses, Glit says he’ll let you have a tablet from the office surplus. And then you’ll be able to access the grid, won’t that be nice?”

“If _you_ think so,” Sunstorm said, “it must be.”

“Oh, er,” Rung realized he’d gotten ahead of himself again. “Well there’s all sorts of research papers, um… forums, news articles, dating sites now—oh but don’t go looking for those yet, not until you’ve, er,” Rung paused, uncertain how to quantify at what level of experience one might reasonably want to date. In the old days the common wisdom had been that anyone with a job of their own was fair game, but Sunstorm was so new, and so sheltered, and so earnest, and the world was full of mechanisms for whom the war had been less of a forge and more of a smelter.

“...Until you have a few friends of your own,” Rung finished, “at least.”

Sunstorm nodded dutifully. “Nurse Clutch says everyone is living in sin now that the senate is just letting everyone swap spit in the streets like animal savages.”

Rung whipped around. “This is one of Glit’s nurses?”

Sunstorm took on a distinctly worried look. “I… I’m sorry, did I say something I shouldn’t have?”

Rung forced himself to relax. He reached over and patted Sunstorm’s hand. “No, sweetie, it’s better that you tell me, so I can do something about it. That’s a very rude thing Nurse Clutch said. And wrong.”

“Oh,” Sunstorm said. His wings flicked up, as if happy, and then down, as if nervous. “Which part?”

“Well, first of all _animal savages_ is a very nasty way of talking about beastformers. It’s certainly not something you should repeat.” At Sunstorm’s earnest nod, Rung went on, “Second of all, there’s no _living in sin_ involved in it. Having all kinds of relationships is perfectly natural to our species.”

“But,” Sunstorm folded his hands together and started rapidly picking at a spot of paint on his thumb, “but it’s wicked. And um. Unclean. “

Rung considered this for a moment, and then decided that at times one had to fight fire with fire. “Well, I have _two_ lovers,” Rung said, “and you wouldn’t say I’m living in sin, would you?”

“Oh no!” Sunstorm said, “No, I would never!”

“So there you have it then,” Rung said. “If I’m holy, and I’m fine with it, it stands to reason that no part of the thing is actually unholy, doesn’t it?”

Sunstorm squirmed. “So Nurse Clutch is wrong?”

“This is an important lesson for you, Sunstorm,” Rung said. He reached out and folded Sunstorm’s hand into his own, covering the raw paint-chipped place. “Not everyone has good intentions, and not everything you hear is going to be true. As you get older, you’ll form your own opinions. Take what you’re told gratefully, listen politely, but always draw your own conclusions.”

Sunstorm didn’t look any happier with this answer. “But... how do I know where to start?”

Hm. There were a lot of flippant answers Rung could give to that, but he set them aside and gave the question the consideration it was due. What might be a framework for interpreting the world that he could give to a new person in full confidence?

He couldn’t remember what had been said to him as a young mech, if he ever had been one. This was the problem with living forever—you were never born, you were always old.

“Trustworthy people come from a place of love,” Rung said, at last. “Look for the helpers. Look for the ones who listen to you when you talk. And especially,” Rung said, giving Sunstorm a Very Serious Look, “trust people who are kind to waiters.”

Sunstorm blinked at him. Rung held the expression for a moment more, and then laughed. He let their joined hands drop onto Sunstorm’s thigh. “Or anyway, that’s my thought on the subject. Take it as you will.”

Sunstorm looked down at their joined hands. “Yes sir,” he said. “I believe you.”

Rung allowed himself to feel a sense of accomplishment. He may be a full thirty minutes late for his return to shift, but he had, at least, done this.

“What’s a waiter?” asked Sunstorm.


	4. Children's Crusade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week four: the purpose of children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> homestretch! After this it's one more chapter and an epilogue. Thanks to RHplus for helping us figure out how to structure the last couple chapters!!!

They let Sunstorm out only a week after Rung’s last visit. Glit commed Rung in the mid-morning to let Rung know about it, which Rung found both gratifying and mortifying. He should’ve made time to visit earlier, never mind his busy schedule and Starscream’s brunch plans. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to feel anxious about further confrontation with that horrible nurse, who, when pressed, had simply looked down his nose and told Rung that it wasn’t his place to tell a follower of Primus what to believe.

He should’ve been _more_. But no, that didn’t matter. Sunstorm had done perfectly well on his own.

“Is it safe?” Rung asked, turning his chair away from his desk to look out the long, elegant window. “Not that I’m questioning your judgement—”

“He’s fine,” Glit said. “He did fry an energon warmer when it beeped at him, but that was right after we started letting him into the break room and even then he got it back under control fast enough I’m willing to call it a success.”

“I had no idea,” Rung murmured. “Such quick progress.”

“Well, he was dead set on getting a tablet after you told him about the intranet. After he went a couple days without breaking that, we let him do a lap around the whole facility. Rads stayed low.”

“And he’s really out?” asked Rung, ashamed of his own surprise. He’d grown so used to the sight of that nervous seeker in his white box. It was so difficult to imagine Sunstorm in Tetrahex. Could he really be one of those small figures down there?

“There was a… discussion,” allowed Glit. “Somebody might’ve used the phrase ‘living weapon.’ But look, that describes at least half of the population. He’s way less dangerous than Deadlock, and you’ve got him working in a hospital. Anyway, he’s five weeks old already. No sense keeping an adult cooped up in a sparkling facility.”

“No, of course not,” agreed Rung. “Thank you so much for—for keeping me in the loop.”

“Oh, I half thought you’d have divined it already,” said Glit, a little purr of amusement creeping into his voice. “Sunstorm _did_ pray an awful lot, this past week. Asking for divine temperance or something. I don’t know if we should have given him that tablet after all. It’s like he went straight to the wackos.”

“Wackos?” Rung said.

“Yeah, all kinds of kooky stuff about colors and rocks and symbology, I can’t make heads or tails of it. I know you like the kid, but I can’t help thinking meeting you so early might have made him a little bit… weird.”

Rung flushed, covered his mouth with his wrist and tried to bury his face as much as possible in the curve of his arm.

“He’s been proselytizing to my nurses,” Glit said, audibly amused. “Going on about the love of Primus and divine forgiveness and sympathy for your fellow mechanism. Something about waiters. All that new age business. What did you _say_ to him?”

Rung turned himself back to his desk so he could slump onto it. He couldn’t even begin to formulate a response.

“Anyway, we got him set up in the newbuild housing,” Glit said, “he’s rooming with a couple other fliers. Says he wants to go into religion, of all things, but hey, it’s not Old Cybertron and I won’t tell the kid he’s gotta go military like all the other seekers if he doesn’t want to. All that’s out of my paws anyhow. Just thought you’d want to know.”

“Thank you, Glit,” Rung said, only slightly muffled by his hands. “Your thoughtfulness does you credit.”

“It’s nothing,” Glit said. “But give the kid a call, if you’ve got a minute. He’s got a comm now. I’ll shoot it over to you.”

“Surely he doesn’t need me hovering over him…” Rung said, heat flushing to the tip of his antenna. “Some ancient old mech poking around in his business when he’s trying to get settled, I’m sure he’d be mortified.”

“Rung, my esteemed erstwhile commander, I’m probably not the person to tell you this, but you have really got to give your situation another look over.”

Rung said nothing. He was embarrassed by his own longing to be needed.

The comm number pinged in his HUD, and then Glit apparently decided to take mercy on him.

“Let’s get drinks sometime,” Glit said. “There’s this new place run by a minibot on the north side, and I hear he’s doing some amateur night type thing on weekends. Me and Sky-Byte were gonna go over and try singing something, see how long before they kick us off the stage. You should come along. Us Lousy Decepticons ought to stick together.”

In the cradle of his arm, Rung managed a half smile. “Maybe,” he said. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Glit. “I hear they’re only allowed to throw soft stuff.”

Once Rung’s audial was silent again, he gave himself a moment to vent the rest of the hot air that had accumulated in his chassis, and then he stood up. He passed Deadlock—studiously typing up something on an unfamiliar letterhead—and wandered off into the hallway, toward the break room on this floor.

He needed—he needed tea. Tea would sort him out. There was nothing like the calming taste of hot iron powder to soothe the circuitry.

He was just spinning the dial on the antique kettle when Aglet came in, splattered head to toe in viscous ink.

Rung leaned back against the counter, eyebrows high.

“Oh don’t start,” Aglet said, ripping an old cleaning cloth out of a drawer beneath the counter. “I came up here because I wanted to _avoid_ judgey medics.”

“I wouldn’t dream of judging you,” said Rung.

Aglet gave him a narrow glare. “This is why I can’t stand art therapy. Someone always wants to play _repaint the shrink.”_

“Black isn’t a bad look on you,” Rung said, “you might want to consider it. You look almost avant garde.”

“Haha,” Aglet said, between irritable swipes. “Stick to medical, fashion isn’t your strong suit.”

Rung smiled at him. “Here,” he said, “Let me get your helm.”

With another rag fished out of the break room drawers, Rung went to work dabbing away the carbon black liquid dripping into Aglet’s seams. “So who’s the fashion visionary behind this daring new look?” Rung asked, as he worked a corner of cloth into the panels of Aglet’s radar dish.

“Just Black Shadow again,” Aglet said. His dish panels flared and collapsed automatically with each prod of cloth. “Never met a mech with so little patience, and that’s _really_ saying something. Parole officer came and got him once he started throwing things, so I’m done for the day.”

Rung hummed in agreement.

“What about you,” Aglet said. “You have solvent on the kettle. You’re making tea. What’s up?”

It didn’t matter how small Rung’s little wince was, Aglet would have clocked it at a mile away. “What?” Aglet said. “Tell me you didn’t piss off Ratchet again. I hate seeing those memos. I always know it’s you he’s talking about.”

“No, no, I didn’t—it’s nothing like _that,_ I just—” Rung bit his lip. When the kettle pinged him, he folded up the rag and went over to where he’d laid his bowl out. He pulled a spare down from the cupboard and set it aside for Aglet.

“Come on boss,” Aglet said, swiping absently at the nape of his neck. “You can tell me.”

Rung tore the tab off the powder packet and poured half of it into the bottom of his bowl, half into Aglet’s. The solvent bubbled up over it and swallowed it all in a silvery swirl.

“Do you think I did well with you?” Rung said. “Teaching you?”

Aglet frowned. “I think you did the best you could under the circumstances. We were fighting a war. I’m not gonna hold a few hiccups against you. You did a great job keeping me from getting slagged, I would’ve been dead in a week if Shockwave had gotten me.”

Rung slid the second bowl across to him, and Aglet picked it up. They settled there, elbows braced against the counter, not quite hip to hip, matching bowls cradled steaming in their hands.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever been good enough,” Rung admitted. “I try, allspark knows, I do try. I haven’t been much of a God, and I doubt I’m what people wanted when they asked for divine intervention.”

Aglet shrugged. “If mechs want fire and brimstone, slag ‘em. Who cares what they want. We had a million years of mortar fire and bombshells. If that’s not good enough for ‘em, they can frag off somewhere else and leave the planet for the rest of us.”

“Yes, well,” Rung said. “I think it’s more nuanced than that…”

“You do your best,” Aglet said, firmly, like it was his final word on the subject. “As long as you do your best, nobody can say scrap to you about it.”

Rung quirked a smile. His tea was warm in his hands, like a tiny bare engine. 

“I’m not sure I’m ready for my second mentee,” Rung admitted, “but I’ll do my best.”

Aglet scrunched up his face, bowl to his mouth. “Second?” he said.

“Well,” Rung said, a bit shyly, “I know it wasn’t exactly—but, well, I do think of you as my first…”

Aglet stopped, mouth full of tea, and then quickly spun away so that Rung couldn’t see his face anymore.

“Aglet?” Rung asked, worried. “Was that—”

Aglet set the bowl down on the counter. He dropped his face into the bowl. “No,” Aglet said, muffled, “it’s fine. Just. Give me a second.”

Rung reached out, uncertainly, and pushed Aglet’s head back enough to see that there was a film of fluid gathering around his squinted optics. 

“Oh,” Rung said, full of a sudden powerful and almost painful warmth. “Aglet…”

Aglet made a furious little noise and went back to burying his face in mercurial steam. 

“Aglet,” Rung said, “you’re getting fluid in your tea…”

“It’s tea,” Aglet muttered, “it’s _supposed_ to be wet.”

“Alright,” Rung said. “Just as you say.”

They stayed like that for a moment, with Rung slowly sipping and Aglet hunched over the counter hiding his face in his drink. After a while, Aglet righted himself with a cursory swipe at his face plate.

“So you’re gonna sign up for the new mentor registry?” he asked, as if his face wasn’t covered in steam and washer fluid. Rung twisted around and fetched him yet another rag. 

“I don’t know,” Rung said. “I should talk to him first. To be certain he wants me. And then, oh, we’ll see what comes next. He’s already had such a difficult life, and it’s barely been a month. It’s going to be complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Aglet seemed relieved to be talking about someone else. “Weird alt?”

“Outlier. But that isn’t the complicated part, not really.”

“Huh.” Aglet wiped away the last wet smear and dropped the rag on the counter. “Just don’t throw Starscream at him like you did me.”

Rung felt himself heat up exponentially. “Yes. Or, I mean, no. I, er. I _am_ sorry about that, you know.”

“But you’d do it again,” Aglet said, with a wry look.

Rung sipped his tea very studiously.

“Yeah,” Aglet said, with a little laugh, “I know you would. It’s fine. It all turned out alright, in the end.”

Rung fixed his gaze on the window, where the sun streamed past in a deluge of fine white gold. “I’m really so glad you think so,” he said. 

“Don’t look so dour,” said Aglet, and then, astonishingly, reached out and put one arm around Rung’s shoulders.

It was warm. Not just where their armor touched, but in his spark and the backs of his optics.

“I meant it,” murmured Aglet. “You’ll do your best. Just like you did with me.”

\---

Rung waited at the front of the Newbuild Temporary Housing, in the atrium, watching as unfamiliar new bots passed through in groups of two or three. It was a high-ceilinged lobby, with the four floors above staggered back like the steps of an inverted pyramid. A winged alt could take off right here and land with ease on the balcony of his own floor, no elevator, no stairs. An _extremely_ modern building style. Vosian influence was surprisingly strong in this mixed-up post-war world. Rung wondered idly if Starscream was to blame. All those government contracts...

There was a front desk, with a resident assistant stationed helpfully behind it. There needed to be one, Rung supposed; newbuilds required a bit more guidance than your usual tenant. The RA had given Sunstorm’s room a buzz, and then Rung had been left to stand alone in the lobby, shifting from pede to pede and reminding himself sternly that he had already made the decision to _try._

It was the _Primus_ thing that made him most nervous. Allspark knew, there was enough pressure on a regular mentor without adding heavenly expectations to it. Rung was uncomfortably sure that he’d never measure up.

Sunstorm, as bright and wonderful as his name suggested, stopped dead still in the door of the elevator the moment he saw Rung waiting for him. A couple of other fliers in the lift behind him jostled him forward, and Sunstorm came stumbling to a halt a few feet in front of Rung.

“Rung!” Sunstorm said, breathlessly. “I—are you here for _me?”_

Rung’s fuel pump was pounding. “Yes,” he said, “yes, I was hoping to talk to you. Do you have a moment?”

Sunstorm lit up. Actually lit up, for a moment—the floor blackened slightly underneath him. “Of course, I’ll _always_ have time for _you.”_

Rung flushed a bit, and busied himself scanning for a good place to sit down. There was a little garden outside, visible through the great glass wall at the front of the lobby. He pulled Sunstorm out into the garden and sat them both down on the low wall surrounding a crystalline terrarium, full of flora from an alien world contained in a perfect self-sustaining ball.

“Are you here to ask me to be a martyr for you?” Sunstorm asked, eagerly, the words bursting from him as if he’d lost containment. “I’ve been reading up on martyrs and I think it’s really a shame I was forged so late after Functionism, because I would have been _so_ good at martyring. I think I really have the right spark for it!”

For a moment, Rung wasn’t entirely sure his audials were working properly. He reset the suite, but the short-term storage didn’t change.

“Oh, sweetie, _no,”_ Rung said, “I would never ask someone just _born_ to—and anyway I think we’ve certainly done enough dying pointlessly as a species already—why do you think I would _need_ a martyr, even?”

Sunstorm opened his mouth, and then bit his lip. “Um,” he said. “I... don’t know. I assumed _you_ would tell _me.”_

Rung stared. He had no idea what to say. _Lovely weather we’re having_ bubbled up to the top of his tongue, nonsensically. 

“There were martyrs in the dark ages, when all the city states started enforcing their own state religions.” Sunstorm ruffled his wings, hands fiddling in his lap. “And I was reading about how just before the war there were all these rallies, with Decepticons, and how sometimes they used to let themselves be taken captive so the other people could get away, and then the senate would execute them, but then their frames would get stolen back and used to make weapons, and—”

Rung held up his hands, cutting off the increasingly nervous chatter. “I’m not here because I want you to pledge yourself to some new cause.” 

Sunstorm’s wings drooped. “You’re not? Because Fidget, my roommate, he says you were a Decepticon, so I’ve been doing a lot of reading about Decepticonism, and—”

“The war is over,” Rung said, “you _do_ know the war is over, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah,” Sunstorm said. “But we lost?”

 _We,_ Rung thought, with exasperation and some thread of fondness. He’d have to tell Megatron that he was _not_ allowed to accept any part of Sunstorm’s spark casing. Not least because Sunstorm needed all the radiation shielding he could get. “I like to think of it more as constructive surrender.”

“Oh,” Sunstorm said. His optics were abruptly fixed on the pavement, helm downturned. “So you don’t want me to be a sworn knight for your shining cause?”

“I don’t have a shining cause,” Rung said, a little stupidly. “I’m a hospital administrator.”

“You don’t want me to smite your foes?” Sunstorm pressed on. “Join your army? Guard you from heretics?”

“Um, no,” Rung said. “I don’t think I like the word heretic, either.”

Sunstorm started to fizzle with distress. Some of the flora nearest them in the terrarium started to wilt. “I don’t understand,” he said, “then why did you _make_ me?”

“Well, the Hallowed Delta was really more of an accident,” Rung started to say, and then a nanoklik later realized how terribly he had misstepped. Sunstorm had gone from fizzling to _boiling._ Rung reached out and took hold of the seeker’s hands. “No, no. Shhh, please, no, that came out wrong. I don’t think, sometimes, I get nervous and I just—Come here, sweetie, slide—that’s right, come on, there you are.”

Sunstorm, much larger, dropped from the little garden wall and onto the ground, and shuffled over until his helm and shoulders were cradled in Rung’s arms. The bleed of radiation slowed, and stopped. 

It was humbling, Sunstorm’s willpower. A few weeks ago, he’d been melting Rung’s wiring. Now Rung barely had even a scorch mark.

“What I was trying to say,” Rung murmured, “is that you don’t exist for a _reason._ No one does. When we fought against the Functionists, we were fighting for the idea that no one is born to a single purpose.”

“There has to be _something_ good about me,” Sunstorm hiccupped, still wetly distressed despite the lack of radiation. “There has to be some _reason_ I’m, I’m, weird, and bad, and dangerous.”

“You aren’t _bad,”_ Rung said. “Your existence is a miracle that justifies itself. You exist for the sheer joy of existing.”

Rung looked up. Above them, the alien flora had withered in a small patch near the edge of the glass. But in the tangle of wilted life, one strange ragged plant had started to bloom.

“You know the stars are full of radiation,” Rung said, watching the little plant spread its fluorescent violet leaves. “We need the light to power our solar sails and illuminate our streets and warm our planet, but the radiation can short us out if we aren’t shielded for it. What’s convenient isn’t always what’s _good.”_

Sunstorm, arms wrapped tight around Rung’s back, squeezed a little tighter. “I wouldn’t mind being bad,” he said, in a small voice, “if that was useful to you. I just want to be useful to you. You were the only person who cared that I was lonely and afraid and I thought that must be because you had some _use_ for me...”

Rung’s spark throbbed. “It wasn’t anything like that.” He stroked his thumb over the vents at Sunstorm’s cheek, feeling the hot distressed air that poured out past him. “You just seemed like you needed a friend. I wanted to be that friend for you.”

“Why?” Sunstorm asked. “You’re important. You didn’t have to.”

Rung weighed his options and settled on honesty. “You reminded me of myself,” he said. “Like a version of me that I could still save. If you’re happy, if you have a good life, I’ll consider it a job well done.”

“Oh,” Sunstorm said. “So… I guess that’s it then. You aren’t here to take me away. You won’t need me to leave with you.”

Now it was Rung’s turn to be nervous again. He looked down, at the dark helm and the shining armor, a huge powerful thing clinging to him in desperate need of reassurance. Rung _wanted_ to be the one to give it, but was he qualified? Could he ever live up to the legacy of Primus, with all its mysteries and contradictions?

“Actually, I was thinking,” he said, his spark in his mouth, “only if you want to, but—and I won’t be hurt if you say no, really, I understand—but do you think maybe you’d like a mentor?”

Sunstorm pulled his head back, looking up uncomprehendingly at Rung.

The silence stretched. Rung cleared his throat.

“Do you think, er,” Rung said, “do you think you might like _me_ to be your mentor?”

Sunstorm stared at him, face blank, for a terrifying moment—and then he was on his feet, with Rung swooped up in his arms, squeezing him so tightly his armor creaked. Rung let out a strangled little shout, legs swinging.

“Rung I would be so honored oh my goodness do you mean it do you mean me _really?”_

“Ye-e-es,” Rung wheezed.

“I’m so excited!” Sunstorm abruptly shifted his grip and held Rung out, like a toy or a small pet, at arm's length. “I didn’t think _anyone_ would want to mentor me! I was really nervous!” 

Rung blinked. All of a sudden Sunstorm seemed to realize what he was doing, and quickly put Rung back down on the ground.

“Almost all the mentors on the registry have already picked newbuilds,” Sunstorm explained. “My friends on the Spectralist forum are really nice about answering questions, but I don’t like to bother them too much, because they all have their own problems I think. All of the ones who can take mentees already have, and it’s really bad to ask people who _aren’t_ on the registry because they might feel guilty and take on more work than they should when really they’re working on _themselves_.”

“Oh,” said Rung, still wobbling a little as he found his balance. “Oh, that’s—that’s very thoughtful. Did you think of that yourself?”

“No, it’s in the forum rules,” said Sunstorm. Something appeared to strike him, and he deflated a little, bending down to peer at Rung. “You don’t feel guilty, do you? I know you’re very busy. I’ll be alright, I promise. I have friends, and roommates, and sometimes Fidget’s mentor Ravage brings enough energon brittle for us to share—”

“No, no,” said Rung. “No, I don’t feel guilty. I’m happy to mentor you. It would make me so glad to, to help.”

“Oh,” said Sunstorm, and then he smiled. “Good! I’m glad too! Isn’t it marvellous that we met? It just goes to show, Primus works in mysterious ways!”

“Er,” Rung said. “I just told you, though, none of this was in any way _intentional_ on my part.”

Sunstorm waved him off. “Oh, that doesn’t matter,” he assured Rung. “Dreddlock777 says that the animating inner divinity present in all Cybertronians is a mystic force connecting people and objects, and that you’re a point of _resonance_ with the spiritual aspect of reality, which is Primus.”

Rung processed that several times, just to be absolutely certain that he understood none of it. “Ah,” he said, weakly. “Well if that’s all.”

Sunstorm beamed. “I’m learning so many things,” he said. “People on the forums are _so_ helpful! And nice!”

Rung made himself a mental note to check and see if _Dreddlock777_ was who he thought it was, and if so, how to make him stop.

Sunstorm shifted, nervously, and then said, “I, um. I could show you around the housing. If you’re not busy. You could meet my roommates. It’s kind of a mess, in my room, but we make sure to keep a path clear in the kitchen and the living room, you know.”

Sunlight glinted off the glass curve of the terrarium. The day was bright, and young, and full of the possibility of more misunderstandings—more excruciatingly awkward conversations—more joy, more delight, more love.

“Yes,” Rung said, “I would like that very much.”

\---

Since there had never been a _child_ on Cybertron before, the already haphazard judicial system of reformed Cybertron had been stumped on how to accommodate Ostaros’ request for visitation. Well, alright, Jazz amended, it had been Prowl’s request—Ostaros wasn’t even tall enough to reach the kiosk in the Hall of Justice, let alone able to fill out the form himself. But Prowl had put Ostaros’ name on it, because that gave him a smooth _in_ to a conversation with a bureaucrat who came out into the lobby to ask what exactly Prowl had meant by writing _offspring_ below _Relationship to the Incarcerated_ instead of using one of the many checkboxes _._

By the end of the conversation, the bureaucrat had been successfully neutralized, a visitation had been authorized, _and_ a request had been routed to Minimus Ambus for an updated list of acceptable relationships. What a beauty. Jazz sighed, with Ostaros wriggling in his arms, mostly forgotten. Nothing quite like watching Prowl box a bot into a corner and then go for the arterial tubes.

It was just the three of them, in the waiting room, now. Prowl standing with his arms crossed, optics narrowed at nothing; Ostaros watching one of the old shows Jazz had downloaded for him; Jazz, bobbing silently to a free-form album on his internal sound system. If it wasn’t for the kid, it would feel like they were waiting for the go-word, ready to deploy. 

One of the prison guards stepped through the doorway and called for Ostaros. The bot jumped down from the table where he’d been silently mainlining a pre-war docu-drama straight into his processor (Ghost Truckers: Ice Roads) and rushed at the door. The prison guard had to reach down and catch him by the helm before he could squeeze through, lifting him and squinting at him, bemused.

“First time visiting?” the guard said.

“Uhuh,” Ostaros said.

“I gotta go in with you,” the guard said. “Sorry, it’s the rules. I’ll stay at the back of the room though; you won’t hear a word outta me.”

Ostaros gave one last good hard wriggle and then, finding himself firmly restrained, said, “Yeah, okay.” Then he brightened. “I can introduce you to my papa!”

The guard blinked, looked over at Prowl for explanation. Prowl waved a hand. 

“Don’t concern yourself with it,” Prowl said. “He’s a new kind of sparkling. Apparently, this is what they’re like.”

The guard blinked again, and then set Ostaros down. “Sir,” he said, in the universal tone of a non-com agreeing to the stupidity of officers. 

“We’ll be coming in too,” Prowl said, gesturing at himself and Jazz. When the guard let his gaze slide over to Jazz, he actually jumped. Jazz gave him a wave and a cocky grin. The guard’s engine coughed.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, only a little reluctance seeping through his professionalism. “As long as you’ve got authorization.”

Prowl produced the forms, the guard grimaced at the names on them, and finally they were set to go. Jazz let himself up from his slump with a little extra smoothness, flicking a jaunty salute at the guard as they all filtered past.

It wasn’t all the time people recognized him. Towards the end of the war he’d gotten a bit of a reputation, but still, most of what he’d done in the field was confidential on top of confidential. He wondered what kind of slag this mech had seen.

Tarantulas was already waiting on the other side of the transparent barrier, wrapped up in kinds of restraints Jazz wasn’t even sure he’d _seen_ before. All those extra legs must have made someone up top pretty nervous. That, or Tarantulas was just _that_ off-putting.

“Evenin’,” Jazz said, as Ostaros darted past his legs. “How’s prison?”

Tarantulas tilted his head. “Jazz, wasn’t it? Oh, dreadfully dull, I’m afraid. No laboratory. It’s not entirely without its little bright spots, though. My lawyer, bless his spark, tells me that I have invented a new type of crime entirely!”

Jazz had managed a little reconnaissance between bouts of caregiving, although not as much as he’d have liked. He knew that Tarantulas’ rep had been arguing _real_ hard in the pretrial that they couldn’t charge him with attempted murder, because the wackadoo hadn’t actually intended to for Rung to _die._ Was there a type of charge for attempted mechslaughter? Jazz made a note to ask an Ambus the next time he had a few free minutes for a comm call.

Ostaros skittered up what _ought_ to have been sheer purchaseless transparisteel, then latched onto the narrow counter in front of the squawkbox that let sound travel without giving visitors a chance to breathe any microbots through to the prisoners. Ostaros perched himself right there, little claw tips click clacking against the barrier.

“Papa!” he said. “I missed you! Did you miss me? I bet you missed me.”

Tarantulas leaned forward, at least as much as he could with all his lots of limbs chained to the floor. “My little monster,” he all but purred. “I’m so pleased to see Prowl’s been keeping you in good health.”

“We went to the park!” Ostaros said, immediately launching into an enthusiastic debrief. “And Star took me to the body shop with him to get my fingers painted, see, they’re green now, like my wings! And Jazz gave me a bunch of movies, and we’ve been making this thingy with little antennae to pick up radio waves—” Ostaros paused, his hands in the act of pantomiming a receiver set, and then sighed. “I couldn’t bring it, I wanted to bring it but Prowl said it was too big to fit in his subspace. I can’t wait until _I_ have a subspace, I’ll be able to fit _anything_.” 

“Not until you have an alt mode,” Tarantulas said, in the tone of someone who had said this many times before.

“Yeah, I know,” Ostaros said. “But I wanna _show_ you. It’s really cool. Prowl even helped me with it some, but he’s at work all the time so usually it’s just me, or me and Star, and Jazz gets us snacks sometimes.”

Tarantulas nodded along. “And are you keeping up with your dietary guidelines?”

Ostaros fidgeted. “I’ve been fueling once a day with the bits like you told me, but I can’t find any mice or bugs to eat or _anything.”_

Jazz physically jolted. _Bugs?_ The kid was eating _live organics,_ and that was part of his _meal plan?_ Prowl was standing as stoic and silent as ever, while Jazz almost toppled over with dread as he contemplated a future where they would have to order horrible little creatures from off-world for their kid to _consume alive in front of them._ He looked at Prowl again, willing Prowl to psychically detect his distress. Prowl continued to frown at the middle distance.

“Don’t fret,” Tarantulas said, unaware of Jazz’s silent breakdown, “once I’m out of here, I’ll take you back to that place you liked, with the crickets. It can wait until then.” 

Ostaros lit up. For a few minutes the two of them chatted animatedly about various planets they’d like to return to and what Ostaros could eat there. Jazz’s tanks were a nauseous rumble of horror and resignation and uncertainty. They sure had a rapport, the kid and his creator. Talking about nutrients and minerals and crunch-factors like they didn’t have a care in the world. 

They made it seem so easy. Tarantulas didn’t sound like he ever got too tired or busy or anxious to deal with the kid. He’d taken Ostaros to dozens of planets, apparently, each one more exciting and full of enrichment opportunities than the last. He’d probably never put Rambotron on loop on the vidscreen just so he could catch an uneasy nap with his optics only half-dimmed and his audials set to filter out the tinny sounds of gunfire. Whatever else the bastard was, Tarantulas had the mentor thing down pat.

“Prowl,” Tarantulas said at last, after all food-based discussions were apparently exhausted. “My muse. My darling. Tell me he isn’t just the most brilliant invention you’ve ever seen.”

Jazz stiffened. Prowl’s perfectly bland expression gave nothing away, but there was a slight flicker in his optics that made Jazz suspect he’d been calculating a stain on the wall rather than paying attention to the conversation.

“You did once make me a stasis tumbler that could hold a prisoner’s spark indefinitely,” Prowl replied. “A newbuild, by comparison, is fairly mundane. Factories do it all the time. Swamps, even.”

“Prowl, you wound me!” Tarantulas said, with enormous drama. “I made that stasis tumbler in barely a fortnight! Ostaros is your very own code! Spark of your spark! I’ve revolutionized the very science of life itself, and I made you a part of it! I couldn’t have done it without _you.”_

He paused, his limbs attempting to spread despite the heavy weight of his restraints. Ostaros fidgeted. Kid always got real quiet when adults were talking.

“Again,” Prowl said, “I want to reiterate. You did not ask me about _any_ of this.”

“Prowl, my muse, my darling—”

Jazz cut in, bright and casual and sharp as glass, “Now I _know_ he already told you he’s got a conjunx, ‘cause I was there, and I _am_ the conjunx.”

Tarantulas paused just long enough to give Jazz a dismissive, unworried look. “Yes, you’re very shiny, but Prowl doesn’t need _shiny,_ do you, Prowl?” His multitude of eyes glittered as he returned his gaze to his fragging ‘muse.’ “You need an intellectual match! Someone who can inspire you, fulfil your needs, make your dreams a reality! And I—” his wiggling legs made his restraints clank together, “—I need your _mind,_ Prowl.”

“I’m not interested in talking to you,” said Prowl, bluntly. “I am _only_ here to assist Ostaros. If you continue to address me, we will leave.”

“ _Prowl_ ,” said Tarantulas, yearningly, and Prowl crossed quickly to the barrier, gathering up Ostaros without another word. Ostaros made several noises of severe complaint but ultimately allowed himself to be hauled away from the squawkbox and then out of the room entirely.

The door closed behind Prowl. The prison guard resolutely had his attention focused on the ceiling, doing his best to convey complete deafmuteness.

Jazz turned back to the glass. Tarantulas was still watching the door.

“You don’t think I’ve got what it takes to keep Prowler,” he said, more a statement than a question.

Tarantulas blinked, and then turned his gaze back to Jazz. “Hmm? Of course not. You’re simply an amusement for him. Did you know his mind can calculate the trajectories of—”

“Eight hundred moving objects,” said Jazz. “Yeah. I know.”

“He needs me,” said Tarantulas, his optics drifting back to where Prowl had left. “He needs a processor to match him, an ambition. Not a clown of a spy who thinks that empty ceremonies can be reckoned against a marriage of intellect. What can you offer Prowl that I can’t?”

Jazz—Jazz could think of _so_ many snappy answers to that question, and none of them worked. He didn’t frag Prowl better than Tarantulas ever had, and he didn’t kiss Prowl to a passionate stupor. It was more complicated than that. They cuddled. Okay, yeah, they cuddled, he wasn’t gonna say that out loud. He had a hard enough time sorting out the line between conjunx and amica in his own head, he didn’t need to invite Tarantulas to dissect it himself.

“He loves me,” said Jazz, far too late.

Tarantulas giggled. “Have you convinced yourself of that? Prowl doesn’t _love_ people. He simply respects their worth to him. And I’m worth ever so much more than you.”

Jazz took a step back. For the first time in memory, the carefree grin wouldn’t come. The room felt heavy around him, the eyes of the guard hot on his back, the condescending upward tilt of Tarantulas’ visor inviting him to smash through the barrier and _show_ Tarantulas exactly how much Jazz was worth, _exactly_ what he was good at. 

“Kid’s probably ready for bed,” Jazz said, skating another step back from the barrier. “I oughta go. Been nice talking to you.”

Manacles clanked against each other. “So lovely to have visitors,” Tarantulas said. “Please do bring Ostaros back to see me.”

“Sure,” Jazz said. “If we have time. Sure.”

On his way out, Jazz avoided the curious gaze of the prison guard. Chin up. Shoulders back. He could feel his engine rattling, a silent furious shudder underneath his layers of stealth mods. In the lobby, Prowl was waiting with Ostaros slumped half-asleep over his shoulder, and Jazz took the kid from him without asking, burying his expression in the bulwark of helm and wings.


	5. Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week four continued, and the days beyond: finding a way to move forward.

Despite having accomplished what they set out to do (reassure Ostaros that his creator was well; monitor the status of an extremely compromising prisoner asset; establish ground rules for future visits), Prowl felt that somehow the night had not been a success. The feeling nagged at him all the way back from the prison facility. 

Prowl hadn’t particularly been looking forward to seeing the mech who had been Mesothulas again, even before the awkward discussion of their nonexistent love life. One typically does not long to reacquaint oneself with the patsy one left holding a bag full of half-finished, Decepticon-sourced dirty bombs. But Ostaros was attached to his creator, and Jazz had some concern about a mech needing a mentor, and Prowl had weighed the risks against the benefits and approved the mission. He wondered what variable he had missed.

It was quite late, for Ostaros, by the time they arrived home, with the sparkling curled up in Jazz’s backseat. He hardly stirred when they carried him upstairs, only a sad little murmur of protest when Jazz plugged him into his berth for the night. 

Prowl stood outside, under the hall light, worrying over his feelings like a tongue probing a missing tooth. Objectively, his presence was unnecessary. Jazz was perfectly capable of putting Ostaros to berth—he did it nearly every night. Prowl stayed anyway.

When Jazz closed the door to the spare berthroom he simply stood there, facing the doorframe, the silence tensing over his frame. This was it. There was something about Jazz, a nearly tangible wrongness in the air since they left the prison. A stillness that was deeply unlike Jazz. No music, on the drive home, no conversation.

Had Tarantulas said something to him that managed to shake the notoriously unshakable Jazz? Perhaps he had mentioned the Carpessa bomb? Jazz was certainly capable of connecting the dots on that particular plot. Prowl had been so certain that Tarantulas would not risk alienating Prowl by implicating them both in war crimes…

Jazz still hadn’t turned from the door. 

“Hey Prowl,” he said. “Do you actually love me?”

Every calculation in Prowl’s processor ground to a halt. A thousand excuses, diversions, and explanations shattered at their root, leaving Prowl’s processor utterly blank.

Jazz’s shoulders jerked upward in a kind of flinch. “Right,” he said. “Dumb question, I don’t—I don’t know why I asked, why should I ask? We don’t need that sappy slag, we’re fine just like we are, no problem. We’re doing fine. You’re happy, I’m—you are happy, aren’t you Prowl? I make you happy?”

Prowl reset his vocalizer with a dry click. “Jazz,” he started.

Jazz spun away from the door, a new and unsettling brightness in his visor, his voice growing faster and more cheerful with every word. “Of course I do, you wouldn’t keep me around if I didn’t, so you’re happy, I know you’re happy, I don’t need to worry about it until you kick me out or leave.” He flicked his own helm, as if to admonish himself for being dim. “You just don't show your feelings in the same way as other people.”

“Yes,” said Prowl, because he was uncomfortably aware that emotions were not his strong suit. “But—” 

“Sure, I get that,” said Jazz, as chipper as an angle grinder. “We have date night, we do ropes, we share a berth. That’s conjunx stuff. We’re plenty conjugal, right?”

“Right,” Prowl said, uneasily.

“So you make me feel like scrap all the time, it’s not like you mean to, right? It’s just your style, that’s just how it is, and I can live with that, I don’t need you to love me like I love you.”

There was that word again. “Wait,” said Prowl, “I—” 

Jazz’s hands waved in the air, _I got this, I got this_. “And every eighth day you got _Validate Jazz_ penciled in on your meeting planner, and it’s good that you think I’m worth doing relationship maintenance for, that’s a good sign. I mean it doesn’t matter that you’ve got me on a schedule like some alien housepet, it’s efficient, why should I be mad? And if maybe I stay out all day so you can’t catch me and tell me whatever nice thing you’ve calculated I wanna hear, so what, I have to come home sometime, and you’ll be there, you won’t go recharge until you’ve said whatever it is, so it doesn’t matter where I go or how late I’m out, because I’ll have to see you when I come home either way.”

Prowl felt his face shifting through several expressions and land on a disconcerted frown. He _had_ noticed that Jazz was out consistently late on relationship maintenance days. He hadn’t attributed intentionality to it. Jazz was often out late.

Jazz was still talking. “Like what am I to you? Some kind of discount Amica who ties you up sometimes? Haha. Whatever, right? We can just keep pretending like Starscream couldn’t replace me any day of the week if he didn’t already have his own little harem, because it’s not like it matters, because he won’t.”

Prowl, processor beginning to overheat, said, “ _Starscream?”_

“And now Tarantulas,” Jazz said, his voice slipping into a positively manic register, “there’s him too, and he made you a sparkling, and I’m just the guy taking care of the kid until he comes back and then nobody needs a stop-gap fake mentor anymore, so then I lose you _and_ the kid and—”

“What?” 

“—I’m just the guy dumb enough to chase after a mech who didn’t wanna be chased in the first place, what did I really expect here, it’s already a miracle you wanted to keep me after the war was over!”

Jazz had his audial horns in either hand, smoothing his palm reflexively over the base. 

“You know, I think all the time about what I can do for you, what makes me worth keeping around, and it’s not a damn thing any other mech couldn’t do for you. When your ex gets outta jail and comes nosing around looking for a second chance, what have I got that he don’t? He can tie you up as good as I can, better probably, with all those legs. It’s his kid, he can mentor better than me too. He’s got a whole truckload of evil genius slag left in him, and I’m just a burned out spy who can’t even go into a goddamn theater anymore without having a panic attack. So what have I really got that’s worth anything to you, at the end of the day?” 

“Wait,” Prowl said, “Jazz, wait.”

“Yeah let's,” Jazz let out a nervous bubble of laughter. “Let’s stop talking about this.” 

More nervous laughter, and then Jazz was retreating down the hall, his visor too bright, his smile too desperate. 

Prowl found himself alone in the hall with the sound of the front door falling shut. His helm ached. His vents were pouring off heat. 

After a moment he tried Jazz’s comm, and found himself blocked.

He felt a brief bubble of panic and ruthlessly popped it. He had to be rational about this. He wasn’t any good at emotions, he _had_ to be rational.

Jazz had been festering for some time, by the sound of it. Since the end of the war, certainly. Since their relationship began? Prowl had thought they were of an accord, that they understood each other. It had been so easy to communicate his limits with Jazz. And if Jazz didn’t always communicate clearly with him, that’s what his algorithmic model was for.

Now a dozen small instances were unrolling in Prowl’s processor, all the instances his model had simply discarded as noise.

Prowl narrowed his optics the smallest fraction. How did one make it through an entire war—how did one conjunx a mech—only to find that one's most basic calculations were essentially faulty? What essential variables had he misattributed? Why did Jazz never make plans, avoid conversations, cling to Prowl in their berth like he was afraid they would be ripped apart and taken to different cells?

Why did he flinch at strange times, and then why did he cover it with a laugh?

There was a noise on the other side of the door. If Prowl hadn’t been standing there in perfect silence, staring down the dark, alone, he doubted he would have heard it. High likelihood it was Ostaros getting up from berth. High likelihood that Jazz had roused him somewhere in the manic intensity of his deposition. High likelihood Prowl would need to put him back down alone.

Not for the first time Prowl felt the stranglehold pressure of this unasked-for guardianship pull tight around his throat. The commitment he hadn’t made and for which he was entirely unsuited, and yet whose existence he was ultimately and undeniably responsible for. It was easier to leave this to Jazz. 

Prowl pushed the door open, and was struck by the sight of Ostaros, in the window of his berthroom, one knee swinging up for purchase on the sill.

“What,” Prowl said, “are you doing.”

Ostaros froze for the barest fraction of a second, but then just as quickly went back to levering himself up onto the sill. 

“Ostaros,” Prowl said, severely. “We are on the second floor. Come away from there.”

“It’s okay,” Ostaros said, determinedly hauling himself up onto his knees. “I can climb down.”

“For what purpose?” Prowl said. “Where are you _going_?”

In a strange mirroring of Jazz’s earlier body language, Ostaros’ little shoulders flinched up. “You don’t want me,” he said, “so I shouldn’t stay.”

Prowl dug his fingers into the metal of his chevron. “Please tell me why you’ve decided this is suddenly necessary.”

“You said you didn’t want me,” Ostaros said. “In the jail. You didn’t ask Papa to make me.”

“I,” Prowl said. He frowned. “I did say that, you are correct.” 

Ostaros slumped, and his disproportionately large optics took on a distressed level of light bleed-off. “I was really excited to live with you,” he said, “I thought you’d be excited too. Papa talks about you a lot. But you’re always at work, and when I wanna do stuff with you, you just make Star or Jazz do it instead.”

Prowl hesitated. “We spend time together.”

“I like it when you answer questions,” Ostaros said. “And when you helped me with my radio. And you talk to me like I’m big. I want you to like me, but you _don’t_ like me, or you’d let me do stuff with you, like Papa does.”

“I have other responsibilities, you know that.”

Ostaros’ little face screwed up. Hmm. That might have been the wrong tact to take. Prowl regretted, and the regret did nothing.

“I wish you liked me,” Ostaros said. Fluid was bubbling up around his optics. “I wish you wanted me. I’ve been good just like Papa told me, but you, you don’t, and I’m not—I’m not being good enough—”

It occured to Prowl, for the first time, that Ostaros loved him.

It was strange. In retrospect it should have been obvious. But they hardly knew each other, they were as estranged from each other as any two random Cybertronians in the galaxy. It was too late now, Prowl realized—Ostaros loved him already, and nothing he could do or say would change what had been done. Prowl could break his spark to put a stop to it, yes, give him away, but Ostaros would always remembering having known him, loved him, trusted him with—

A wave of dread washed over Prowl; it consumed him. He could give Ostaros away, but it would never be the same again. And then he would have to live in a world where Ostaros grew up without him, hating him, an alien being who had once shared his home.

Ostaros loved Prowl, because Ostaros was young and kind-sparked and had not yet learned what it meant to be mistreated by a careless world. He had loved Prowl because Tarantulas loved Prowl, as misguided, manipulated, and unreciprocated as that love was, and now that he knew and depended on Prowl, that love had only become more deeply entrenched.

Prowl had always felt, with some resentment towards his circumstances, that Ostaros was no more his obligation than any other Cybertronian ought to be. He didn’t understand why Tarantulas seemed to think it would be otherwise. But in fact it was Ostaros who needed _Prowl,_ much more than any random Cybertronian, much more than Prowl had let himself imagine.

Prowl would always have some meaning to Ostaros. The only thing he retained any control over now was what meaning that might be.

“I’m not…” Prowl steadied himself against the doorframe, forced his voice to remain calm. “I’m not good at this. I don’t know how to do it. Jazz and Starscream have a better rapport. My strength has never been… interpersonal.”

Ostaros rubbed at his wet optics with the back of one wrist. 

“I admit it,” Prowl said, “I’ve never been well liked. Even before the war, but especially after. It isn’t the place of officers to befriend the ranks. I’ve been called cold. Sparkless. I didn’t think I was the right person to supervise your emotional growth.”

“I’m not growing right now,” Ostaros sniffled. “I need a cocoon.”

“...Right,” Prowl said. “What I mean to say is, it’s not that I don’t want you here.”

“But you said so,” Ostaros pointed out, “in the jail, you said—”

“I didn’t ask for Tarantulas to make you,” Prowl cut in. “I wasn’t consulted about my role in your conception. But that’s not the same as not wanting you _now._ You’ve been—you’ve been very good, Ostaros. I care for you.”

“Oh,” Ostaros said, and then perked up considerably. “You do?”

“Yes,” Prowl said, and tried not to feel as if he’d just committed to a full scale military assault with little to no intel. “I do.”

It was as if a switch had flipped. Ostaros scrabbled down off the ledge, tears forgotten, eager to re-insinuate himself with his caretaker. When the little arms flung closed around Prowl’s leg, Prowl pulled himself together enough to eventually give the greenish helm an uncertain pat.

“Can I stay in your room?” Ostaros asked. “Since you like me and all?”

Prowl, caught between not wanting to lose progress and also the need to maintain some modicum of distance, made an uncertain sound. 

“Pleaaaaase,” Ostaros said. “Just one time! I promise!”

Prowl considered it. Jazz would probably sleep more soundly, anyway, if he didn’t need to get up to check if Ostaros was still alive. “Well,” he said. “Alright. If it would make you feel better.”

Ostaros squealed and led the way, bouncing off a wall in his hurry to get to Prowl’s room.

It was undoubtedly the first of many concessions. Prowl would need to take more time off work, or perhaps bring Ostaros to work with him—there were no rules against bringing sparklings into government buildings, since most sparklings weren’t technorganic miracles of science. He would need to learn how to better validate Ostaros, to provide the mentorship that Tarantulas was so adept at. But for now, at least, Ostaros settled at Prowl’s side with a happy sigh and flicked off his optics.

One problem down. Prowl began developing a plan of approach for Jazz.

\---

In anticipation of Jazz returning home from his cool-off drive, Prowl had plugged Ostaros into his own side of the berth and sat himself up next to the smaller mech, waiting. Quite a long time later into the evening, Ostaros was curled up against his hip, dead to the world, and Jazz was still not home.

Prowl tried Jazz’s comm again. He was still blocked.

He kept turning over his model of Jazz, trying to find the places it deviated from reality. Had he taken too much at face value? Or had he ignored what was happening in front of his optics? Was Jazz acting hysterically, or was Prowl terminally deficient?

No answers revealed themselves. Finally, exhausted, Prowl commed the only person he knew who could be of any possible use and could be relied on to take the call.

“Fggzk,” said Starscream.

Prowl routed his voice through an internal channel, so as not to disturb Ostaros. “Jazz left me.”

“What?” blurted Starscream, abruptly and loudly awake. Prowl could hear the muffled groans of Megatron and the concerned murmurs of Rung, and there were a few scraping noises as Starscream extracted himself from the berth. “What?” repeated Starscream in a whisper. “What the frag did you do?”

“I don’t know,” said Prowl. “He asked—he asked if I love him.” 

“What did you _say_?” Starscream’s voice had risen again. There was a rumbling growl and then the hiss of a door opening—Starscream fleeing into the corridor, perhaps.

“I didn’t say anything,” said Prowl.

“Wow,” said Starscream. “Wow. And he’s gone? Gone gone, or—”

“I don’t know,” said Prowl, miserably. How humiliating, to admit that he didn’t know. “He said—a lot of things. He said I make him feel like scrap. He worries that I’m going to run away with Tarantulas. He doesn’t like affirmation days.”

Starscream hummed. “ _I_ like affirmation days.”

Yes, Prowl knew that. It was why he scheduled them for Starscream on a much more frequent basis. “I don’t understand why he’s talking about my leaving him for Tarantulas,” he said. “I’ve expressed no interest in Tarantulas. I was barely even involved with Mesothulas! Certainly not more than it took to keep him loyal to me—”

“It’s because he’s worried that’s what you’re doing to him,” said Starscream. “Giving him just enough to keep him loyal. That _is_ why you conjunxed, wasn’t it? Big pretty party to make Jazz want to stick around?”

“That wasn’t,” said Prowl, and then stopped himself. It wasn’t, was it? He’d wanted to be conjunxed. He’d enjoyed attending Rung’s reception, and he’d thought it would be intriguing to have his own. True, he’d run his model before asking Jazz the question. It wasn’t worth the risk if Jazz would refuse. And if the model had said the conjunxing would not only be welcome but would indefinitely lengthen the relationship, well. Why else did people get conjunxed?

“ _Do_ you love him?” asked Starscream.

The berth was cold and dark without Jazz, except for the little pinprick of warmth that was Ostaros. Prowl sat silent for a long time.

“I know people call me cold,” he said at last. “But—”

“Ughhhh,” Starscream said, “people called you cold because you moved them around like pieces on a game board! Because you were a tactician! The war’s over, Prowl, you can let yourself live a little.”

“I know the war’s over,” snapped Prowl. “I’m living. I have a conjunx and an amica, and a job I enjoy. That’s all I need.”

“You sound like you’re checking off a list,” said Starscream. “Furniture shopping.”

“I didn’t call you to be criticized,” said Prowl. “I called you because Jazz left and Ostaros tried to climb out a window and my _model_ doesn’t _work_!”

“Ostaros tried to _climb out a_ —”

“It’s handled,” said Prowl. “He’s fine, he’s with me.”

Starscream took a few steadying breaths. “Okay. Yeah. Listen, just tell him you love him when he comes home. Sorted.”

Prowl’s fans stalled and had to be manually restarted. “I don’t think—”

“We’ll practice,” said Starscream, brightly. “Tell me you love me.”

“Starscream—”

“I’m your _amica_ , Prowl, tell me you love me!”

“I can’t deal with this right now,” said Prowl. “Comming you was a mistake, I’m sorry for—”

“This is the whole problem!” yelled Starscream, surely loud enough to wake his whole apartment block. “You want the title and the hugs and the middle of the night comm calls, but you don’t want to give even a sliver of your emotions! I should matter to you! Jazz should matter to you!”

“You do matter!” Prowl had to quiet his engine before it could rev. “I just can’t—I can’t—Casualties _happen_ you can't invest all your resources in one person—”

“Oh,” Starscream said, his voice dwindling to a murmur. “Then _that’s_ your problem. You treat us all like we’re just assets you can afford to lose. And you’ll lose all of us, if you don’t change.”

Prowl shrunk from the truth of it. He _couldn’t_ afford to lose Jazz or Starscream. They were indispensable—dangerously so. Why had he done this to himself? Did he crave companionship that much?

“I love you,” he said, experimentally, but it tasted false.

“Good,” said Starscream. “I love you too.”

“I don’t know how to mean it,” said Prowl, feeling numb. 

“You just gotta, uh,” Starscream made a frustrated noise. “I don’t know. It always feels wrong at first. I hated saying it out loud. But if you keep saying it, it feels better.”

Prowl stared down at the berth, the dent he was leaving in the cushion where Jazz should be.

“Anyway, let’s see where Jazz is. I put a tracker on his comm frequency, he hasn’t found it yet.”

“Starscream,” said Prowl, already imagining Jazz’s reaction.

“It’s _fine_ ,” said Starscream. “Just a little game we play.” He hummed to himself for a moment, but then the humming abruptly cut off.

“Prowl,” Starscream said, “why is Jazz talking to _Rattrap_?” 

\---

Jazz found himself in possession of half an upside-down table, in the depth of darkness in the middle of the graveyard shift, after spending as much of the night as he could get away with at the weird little half-burrow-half-house that passed for the home of Cybertron’s most eccentric senator. Rattrap, he meant. He meant Rattrap.

Anyone who had never had an emotional breakdown on the floor of an enormous rat nest while trying to put a table together was really, in Jazz’s opinion, missing out.

He’d actually been meaning to come help out with this for a couple days. That was what he did, mostly, when he wasn’t at home with Prowl: gave his friends a hand here and there with stuff that needed doing. Considering they were all trying to live in a part-way-bombed golden-age city that had been sitting empty for centuries before the new reformed government reclaimed it, there was always something _someone_ needed a hand straightening out. Jazz knew a lot of someones.

Rattrap kept weird hours. Rattrap had a table to put together. His place was the natural solution to Jazz’s desperate need to be anywhere except lying in the dark next to his conjunx, sleepless, listening for a sound in the hall. Rattrap himself was just a guy Jazz knew, hardly even a friend, nothing more than that. So what if he’d taken one look at Jazz on his doorstep and asked what the hell Prowl had done now. Sometimes people just knew things about each other. It didn’t have to be complicated.

This stupid _fragging_ bolt index was what was complicated. Apparently Jazz could let himself into a Decepticon fortress, bluff his way into the war room, seduce his way into the commandant's berth, and scale the fortress while evading potshots from the battlements, but he couldn’t _read a fragging furniture diagram._

The doorbell buzzed. Rattrap dug himself out of the pile of packaging he’d been ensconced in and climbed to his feet. “Huh,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting nobody else this time of night.”

Jazz stayed on the floor, head bent over the project, while a hundred angry sirens went off in the back of his helm. Let them go off, he was exhausted. Whoever it was could shoot him to smithereens right now and Jazz would probably thank them for the vacation from consciousness.

And yet, when he heard that voice at the door, he was up and slinking to the edge of the doorframe before he was even conscious of it.

“You sure got some ball bearings,” Rattrap drawled, to the visitor just beyond the front door. 

“I only want to talk to Jazz,” said Prowl. “Though I must inform you that Starscream has become aware of your association and is convinced that you are plotting to destroy him.”

“Is that a threat?” Rattrap puffed up, his armor fluffing aggressively. “Listen, Jazz came here to get away from you, and mentioning my disgraced _colleague_ ain’t gonna pry him out of here.”

“I don’t intend to pry, I simply—”

Jazz shoved himself away from the wall and into sight. “It’s fine,” he said. “I was coming back home anyway, Prowler, only I was gonna finish this table first.”

Prowl’s optics flickered over the piles of packaging and pieces of hardware on the floor. “I can help,” he said. “If you’d permit it.”

It was a little surreal, watching Prowl settle onto the floor, carefully brushing styrofoam wrappers out of the way. Rattrap was pointedly sitting on the only chair in the cozy one berthroom flat, staring down his lack of a nose at Prowl while Prowl fed the furniture diagram into his processor.

“This is incomprehensible,” said Prowl, after a moment. “Some of these operations are not possible in this order.”

“I _knew_ it.” Jazz glared at the currently two-legged table. “Where did you get this thing, Ratters?”

“Dumpster diving,” said Rattrap, as if that was a normal pastime for a sitting senator. “Where’s the kid, Prowl?”

“In recharge,” said Prowl. Jazz had a panicked half-moment of imagining Ostaros _alone_ before Prowl clarified: “Starscream’s sitting with him. He said he was going to stay up anyway until he’d ‘plumbed the depths of that traitor’s conspiracy.’”

“Huh.” Rattrap gnawed on a claw. “Not much of a conspiracy, but I gotta admit I’m curious to hear what he comes up with.”

Prowl picked up a wrench and began loosening the bolts that Jazz had tightened until they creaked. “Jazz,” he said, not looking up from his task, “I came here to—that is, I need to say—I love you.”

Rattrap made a noise like steel jaws closing on a leg. Jazz had to subtly pound his chest to get his spark to restart.

Prowl was looking at him now, looking at him expectantly. Jazz knew what the right thing to say was, but instead what bubbled out of his mouth was: “That’s it?”

Prowl frowned. “I don’t know what else to say.”

Jazz laughed. It sounded terrible. He must be exhausted, he could fake a better laugh than that. “Say _something_ else. Yeah, you can tell me what I want to hear, I already knew that. But I _don’t_ want to go back to playing happy families, back to your fragging affirmation day on a different schedule. Tell me something true, Prowler, tell me _anything_ true.”

“True,” said Prowl, slowly. He picked up a table leg, weighing it in his hands. “I think we should dissolve our conjugation.”

Jazz’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

“We’re ill-suited,” said Prowl, selecting a bolt and beginning to fasten the leg to the table. “You are charismatic, charming, and a joy to be around. You are helpful to everyone you meet. You’re building a _table_ for _Rattrap_. I, meanwhile, am a misery. I don’t understand relationships, despite my obsessive attempts to chart their details. I don’t understand how to show love. I don’t understand the difference between an amica and a conjunx, although everyone else seems to implicitly know the answer and find it offensive to even question it. I have a very limited enjoyment of physical intimacy that clearly doesn’t satisfy you. I try to establish at least a baseline of affection, and I am so unsuccessful at it that you don’t believe I love you and Ostaros tried to climb out a window to escape from me.”

“Hold up,” said Jazz, his processor spinning. “ _Ostaros_ tried to climb out a—”

“He’s fine,” said Prowl, starting on the fourth leg. “Tarantulas has already indoctrinated him into loving me given the bare minimum of encouragement. You, on the other hand, are intelligent enough to see through my facade. You already try so hard to make me happy despite the way I hamper your life—I see the way you avoid other mechs now that we live together, the way you guard our home. I don’t want you,” he paused, struggling with a stuck bolt, “I don’t want you to have to _scrounge_ for affection. You deserve better than a ‘hall pass’ and a defective conjunx. Would you like to keep the apartment? I can have my things out tomorrow. We can arrange any kind of visitation schedule with Ostaros that you would like—of course I wouldn’t burden you with his care, but you seem fond of—”

“Primus’ toasted tendrils,” said Rattrap. “Are you _for real_ right now? Jazz isn’t fragged up because you’re a bad conjunx—I mean, okay, yeah, a little, but nothing a bit of _communication_ won’t solve. He’s fragging _traumatized_ by the fraggin _war!”_

“Haha,” said Jazz. “I’m not. Traumatized.”

“You are.” Rattrap waved a hand around. “We all are, yeah, but you got it _bad_ , mech. When’s the last time you even talked to someone without having a weapon on standby?”

Jazz chewed on that, tempted to just outright lie. But after a pause that was too long to be anything but guilty, he admitted, “Probably since Cuela Base.”

He could feel Prowl’s renewed analysis on the side of his helm, like a hot laser sight. He grimaced. “Do me a favor, mech,” he said. “Treat me like a person, not a problem.”

Prowl jolted and returned to the table, restlessly tightening bolts that were already creaking.

“Hey, hey,” said Rattrap, leaning down out of his chair. “You’re a walking, talking problem, Jazz. You think I haven’t noticed how often you’re coming around here, asking to put up shelves? Forget about it. You need something and we’re gonna figure out what it is.”

“I love you,” offered Prowl, as if it was the only thing that overactive processor could think of.

“Yeah, very nice, but I’m saying it’s _not_ that,” said Rattrap. “Come on, Jazz. Tell your conjunx and your, uhh, rat buddy what’s up.”

“I’m fine,” snapped Jazz. “I just had a bad day and I don’t like Tarantulas, okay? I’ll be back to normal fun Jazz after I’ve had some rest and I can remember how to act like I know what to do with myself.”

“What do ya wanna do with yourself?” said Rattrap, softly.

“It doesn’t matter what I _want_ ,” said Jazz, and it was like back at the apartment all over again, but worse. He felt like someone had cut his brakes and there was nothing to do but ride to the end. “I _want_ to go out to the club and dance, have a few drinks and catch up with my friends, wake up in the middle of the night on someone else’s couch and stumble my way home to a conjunx who, yeah, loves me, so I guess that part’s sorted now that Prowl’s learned his lines. But I can’t stand bars now, and there’s no sightlines in a crowd, and I can’t get drunk around other mechs because my surveillance mods burn fuel faster than I can drink it. So I’ll settle for a nice place and fifteen locks on the door, and a conjunx that at least I can predict. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

“No,” said Prowl, staring blankly at a complete table. “I don’t think it is.”

“Prime’s sake,” said Rattrap. “I can’t believe you two ran the war.”

“Optimus was the lead commander,” corrected Prowl, which made Jazz smile despite himself.

Rattrap snorted. “Yeah, but you _ran_ it. I guess it makes sense that you two are still stuck in it. Jazz, you can’t be a paranoid recluse for the rest of your life. You’re a party mech. You can’t lay all your needs on one guy and then be mad when he doesn’t live up to ‘em. You need the party.”

“Yeah,” said Jazz, “but—”

“And you.” Rattrap jabbed a claw at Prowl. “Learn to lay your cards on the table all the time, not just once the mission’s busted. This is a _relationship_ , you don’t need to hide intel.”

“I understand,” said Prowl, “but—”

“And!” said Rattrap. “I gotta get up for work in three hours! We ain’t gonna fix all of this tonight, so let’s just get _somewhere_ so you can go home and let me nap.”

There was a long, thoughtful pause. Jazz sat back on his palms and contemplated the ceiling.

“Tell you the truth,” he said, “I can’t properly work out what the difference between a conjunx and an amica is either. I thought you knew.”

Prowl shook his head. “I knew I wanted them. I knew I wanted both you and Starscream. I assumed other people would provide working guidelines beyond that point.”

“So what’re we, then?” Jazz said, “If we don’t even know what a conjunx really is. What _do_ we know?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jazz watched Prowl’s fingers sorting the spare screws and bolts with perfect effortless precision. “I know that I was glad to be chased by you,” Prowl said, looking down. “To be wanted by you. I know that I’m happy with you. I know that… I want you to be happy too.”

“I am happy,” Jazz said.

Prowl gave him a _look._ Jazz winced.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “I’m happy sometimes. More with you than anyone else. And don’t give me that _defective_ slag, you’re more’n good enough for me.”

“I don’t want to dissolve our conjunction,” Prowl admitted. “I don’t want to move away from you.”

Jazz huffed a laugh, and this one was weak, but genuine. “I don’t want you to either. Primus, me alone in that house? I’d go outta my helm.”

“Good,” Prowl said, and if you knew him, you could hear the edge of relief in his voice. “Ostaros will be pleased, I’m sure. He’s very attached to you.”

Jazz turned a thought over in his head, weighed the shape of it, wondered if he could trust the intel after all this time. He tossed a bolt in his palm, absently.

“...Do you really love me?” Jazz said.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Prowl said, helm down, fixed on his lap. “But I will let you go, if that’s what’s best for you. If that’s love, then you were the first person I have ever loved. And I still do.”

Sometimes an op was a leap of faith. You trusted that the intel was good enough, and anything missing from the dossier was something you could pick up along the way. You grit your teeth, and you took the plunge.

Jazz caught the bolt out of the air and leaned forward, pressing it into Prowl’s accepting hands. Their metal was warm where it touched. Prowl’s fingers seemed to follow his, reluctant to part.

“So you’re my Prowl,” Jazz said, “and I’m your Jazz. Between the two of us, I bet we can work this conjunx thing out alright.”

It was a nice moment. Rattrap kinda ruined it with the sarcastic clapping, but frag, it was his apartment.

\---

EPILOGUE

\---

Rung had come to collect Sunstorm at his shared housing. “You should only attend if you want to,” he’d explained carefully, over the comm. “I intended to have you over to my home for dinner so you could meet my partners and tell me all about your plans, but I thought—well, public places are sometimes less intimidating, aren’t they? And the music will be good.”

Sunstorm had agreed, of course. He liked music. Some of the spectralists on the intranet posted clips of their worship, smooth voice and rough rising together in praise of Primus. Sunstorm very much wanted to see what music was like in person.

He possibly should’ve mentioned to Rung that he hadn’t actually left his shared housing since arriving there in the first place. Now he was cringing behind Rung, clinging with both hands to his shoulders, using him as his literal rock. There were _so_ many people, talking, laughing, no one wearing radiation shielding at _all_ , and the heat was rising in Sunstorm’s throat—

“Sunstorm?” Rung put his hand over Sunstorm’s tightening fingers. “Are you all right?”

Sunstorm vented. In, out, in, the fire banked down to a bearable smoulder. “Yes,” he decided. He could do this.

Rung led him to a huge table in the center of the room, at least three times as large as the table Sunstorm had had in the Lighthouse. It was surrounded by mechs, and they all looked at Sunstorm as he and Rung drew closer. Sunstorm made another failed attempt to hide behind his mentor.

“This is Sunstorm,” said Rung, brightly. “Sunstorm, this is Prowl—his conjunx is performing tonight.” He gestured at a sturdy grounder who matched Sunstorm’s historical downloads for _enforcer_ but didn’t have the right sigils on his doorwings. Sunstorm wanted to ask, but Rung was already introducing someone else and that was more important, he could ask questions later. 

Ostaros was a small mech who didn’t match _any_ of Sunstorm’s downloads. He was also sitting in Prowl’s lap and surreptitiously trying to grasp the fizzy energon that Prowl kept absently moving away from him. Megatron was very large and gray and looked at Sunstorm like a nurse, assessing him. Starscream—

“Oh,” said Sunstorm, unable to help himself. “You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” said Starscream, fanning his translucent wings with a sharp smirk. He looked _so_ fast, like some kind of experimental rocket. Sunstorm had never seen a flyer like him. But he was a seeker, wasn’t he? Rung had told him that, on the way to the club. He was a seeker, like Sunstorm?

“I don’t mind the staring, but sit down at least,” said Starscream. “You’re making my neck hurt. Does he always loom like that?”

“He’s nervous,” said Rung, reprovingly. “Sit down next to me, Sunstorm.”

Sunstorm slid into the open chair between Rung and Starscream. “Did you come out of the ground looking like that?” he asked, his optics still fixed on Starscream’s glittering paint. “Did Primus make you that way?”

“ _I_ didn’t grow in some swamp.” Starscream sniffed. “I was constructed—not to this design, the design is all my own.”

“Didn’t Pharma,” began Megatron, but Starscream simply talked over him.

“I don’t mind telling you about it, Sunstorm, but it _is_ a little rude to ask a mech’s origins.”

Sunstorm bit his lip. Rude? Rung never told him his questions were rude. Maybe he should save the rest of his list. 

“It’s all right.” Rung patted Sunstorm’s arm. “It’s a history thing. Megatron volunteered to give you history lessons along with his friend Optimus, won’t that be nice? _And_ they’re recording a set of downloads for all the newsparks.”

“I only volunteered because I wasn’t letting Optimus create those downloads alone,” grumbled Megatron. “Now there’s a _committee_. And a script! Have you seen the ending, Starscream? We’re supposed to link arms and say something sappy about _peace uniting us all_. No doubt some bureaucrat will want us to add a loving kiss to really sell the new Cybertron.”

“Hmm.” Starscream smiled. “Well, I’m sure Optimus won’t mind.”

“What’s that supposed to—”

“Hey,” whispered a voice from under the table, and Sunstorm felt the prick of claws on his knee. He looked down and found Ostaros peering up at him.

“Dad says you’re a newspark,” said Ostaros. “Is that like a kid? Are you a kid?”

“Maybe?” said Sunstorm. “I’m about a month old. I’ve passed all my downloads, but—”

“I’m older than you!” squealed Ostaros.

“Ostaros,” said Prowl, “don’t bother—”

“I’m years and years older than you!” Ostaros clambered up into Sunstorm’s lap. “That means you have to listen to what I say and learn from my eruditiction. How come you’re so big? Were you already soup?”

“Soup?” Sunstorm looked helplessly at Rung. “Am I supposed to be… soup?”

“No,” said Prowl, firmly. “Ostaros, please leave—”

“Gentlemechs!” A small bronze mech slid to a stop in front of the table, his arms spread wide. “You ready for the performance of the century? I got us shots.”

“Rattrap,” snarled Starscream. “If you think I’m drinking _anything_ you’ve had your grubby little paws on-”

“Hey, hey, I ain’t touched ‘em.” Rattrap gestured at another mech with a little platter, who began setting tiny cubes of energon on the table. “Swerve, did I touch ‘em?”

“I poured them myself,” said Swerve. “Guaranteed no poison or your credits back.”

Sunstorm prodded the little cube that was placed in front of him. It bubbled.

“That’s engex,” said Rung, who was passing his own little cube over to Megatron. “Would you like to try it? Did you have a download on your FIM chip, or do you need me to show you—”

“How come _Sunstorm_ gets to have engex?” yelped Ostaros. “Dad, why can’t I—”

Prowl got up and plucked Ostaros out of Sunstorm’s lap. “Because you don’t have an FIM chip, it would interfere with your mineral intake, and _no one_ wants to find out what happens if you drink it anyway.”

Ostaros pouted.

“I’ll get you another spritzer,” said Prowl. “Try not to eat the cube this time.”

Sunstorm pushed the engex away. “Brother Bludgeon says strong energon clouds our processors and hides Primus’ grace.”

Starscream looked at Sunstorm a little askance. “Rung, have you been _indoctrinating_ the poor mech?”

“It’s nothing to do with me,” said Rung, and then hesitated. “Well. I suppose it’s a _little_ to do with me.”

Rattrap plopped down in the last open seat. “Mechs! The show!”

“Why are you even _here_ , Rattrap?” demanded Starscream. “This is Prowl’s table, I’m Prowl’s amica, and Rung and Megatron are, are mine. What about you?”

“I’m the promoter!” Rattrap snapped his fingers, and the overhead lights in the club went out, leaving only the dim light over the bar and the bright spotlight on the stage.

A mech stepped into it. He was carrying an instrument (electrositar, classical), and his grin was almost too wide for his face. He looked a little nervous, Sunstorm thought. Maybe that was part of the music.

“Hey,” said the mech. “I’m Jazz. Some of you probably know that? Don’t worry, I’m not here to kill you.”

One or two people laughed. Sunstorm wasn’t sure if he should too, but Starscream was scowling so probably not.

“Haha.” Jazz plucked a few strings on the sitar. “Yeah. I’d like to thank my conjunx Prowl and my buddy Rattrap for convincing me to get up here. Figured the stage might be a little easier than the mosh pit right now. I’m gonna play a few tunes, see how the night turns out. I might get cold feet and bail, but maybe it’ll be a dance party, you know? Only one way to find out.” He took a deep breath, let it out. Sunstorm found himself breathing with him.

“Anyway,” said Jazz. “Here’s Wonder-fall.”

Sunstorm knew the song—it was a Cybertronian standard, he’d been tested on it. But the test hadn’t prepared him for the sound. A chord filled the room, hushing the crowd. And then another chord, and another, and Jazz’s voice rising above it all.

It felt holy.

“Thank you for bringing me,” whispered Sunstorm, to Rung.

“Of course,” whispered Rung. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

\---

Dear all,

Well the universe has smiled upon us today as Rung has unfortunately discovered these letters I have been keeping with you all but has graciously decided not to fire and/or set Megatron upon me. After some consideration he has decided that if someone _must_ write it then it may as well be myself which I think we can all agree is a much better outcome than expected. We had a long talk about Neo Primal philosophy and Rung said he still does not understand it but I told him that was all right it is something that you have to study and no one thinks he became a spiritualist just because he died and came back to life.* 

Additionally Rung has told me that he doesn’t feel it appropriate to instruct his believers what to do or to think but he would make an exception in this one instance and say that it is Not Right to proselytize to unsuspecting newsparks and make them feel Ashamed and also that if he hears of Certain Nurses engaging in this behavior again he will be Cross. I am sure that all of you have the best intentions but if in fact some of you do not I would also like to inform you that Rung may not believe that violence solves problems but I do.

I hope you are all keeping well and I look forward to further discussions about the nuances of this wisdom. Rung’s aura was very turquoise today and I felt a great deal of energy which I will try to pass on through my own words and actions. 

Yours in Primus,

(Drift) Deadlock of Rodion

*Interpret this however you like as I do not intend to restart the whole thread about what it means in the mailing list. Please keep to the appropriate discussion board.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ostaros/Springer and Sunstorm are going to be best friends for the rest of their lives even though they have nothing in common because Springer is a jock and Sunstorm is going to seminary school to argue with all the professors.
> 
> Also I don't know if we ever linked this on one of the fics, so: [art of baby Ostaros by shapeofmetal](https://shapeofmetal.tumblr.com/post/623811127625875456/baby-technorganic-ostaros-with-his-moth-wings)!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Please let us know if you enjoyed :) Next on the docket for Banners from the Turrets: Pharma. Yes, again.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this fic, you can share it on [tumblr](https://neveralarch.tumblr.com/post/627704245891809280/operating-instructions-chapter-1), [twitter](https://twitter.com/neveralarch/status/1299357222703706113), or [DW](https://neveralarch.dreamwidth.org/109435.html)! Or leave us a comment here :)


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